Spring
by GhostRelic
Summary: The North, the West, and a sense of belonging that differs for both Tywin Lannister and Sansa Stark. :::: Pride & Pack: Part VI :::: [COMPLETE]
1. Home pt I

He told himself he would sleep on the journey, but there he was rocking in time to the sway and pull of the waves that were cutting past the bow of his ship, awake and aching, thinking of his wife.

His vessel was the lead cog of thirty that departed from King's Landing, each with just over a hundred soldiers, and filled to the brim with negotiated stores and provisions from the South. This was followed by another thirty ships bearing tradesmen and supplies required for both mending the North and the battle ahead.

Behind those boats sailed twenty large carracks; they were farther out to sea, and though their chartered plot was the same direction their eventual destination differed.

Sansa was palpably livid he would not make her privy to his plans; although he _did_ enjoy the creative methods she employed in her attempts to discern the information she wanted.

In his stately aft quarters, lying in a bunk equal to his rightful bed in both size and luxuriousness, the old lion had to adjust his breeches, and himself, at those particular thoughts.

Lord Tywin left Casterly Rock for King's Landing without fanfare, without daylight even. Accompanied by his personal troop of fifty men, plus fifty to support and serve. His only farewells were the ones Sansa bestowed upon him in the nights leading up to his departure.

Again he adjusted.

When he had taken his wife and sons to Casterly Rock, he stopped and personally retrieved Sansa from the litter she was travelling in with their children. She had left the boys in the care of their nurses, donned boots, and accepted his arm and direction as he lead her to the front of the caravan.

They had been traveling the Gold Road exclusively, up through the mountains where it still snowed in the evenings, then down again.

It was on the skirt of the rocky outcrops that he assisted his wife in climbing stony natural stairs and stood with her on the flat jut that allowed view of the land expanse before them.

First the grey rocks and ground dotted and faded into weathered greens and a smattering of forest; their perch offered a view above the trees where the forest became thick. Past the far edge of it a quilt of fields were burgeoning in vibrant colours.

But beyond that was evidence of life.

Of population and movement.

And at the northern edge of that population, as though it had been carved from a punch of mountain itself, was the castle Lord Tywin was born in.

The castle where he knew happiness as a small child, leading his brood of brothers in mischief.

It was the castle his wife would command without him, and the land they viewed was but a glimpse of what she would rule.

"It's quite large... even at a distance." Sansa's inflection was airy, her mind obviously in the depths of contemplation.

What she would not set to voice was that the image reminded her of looking out the heavy curtains of the Queen's litter all those years ago, _some would say in another life altogether_, and seeing Winterfell dwindling smaller over the rolling hills of the North.

Even at a great distance Casterly Rock was immense. It was a truth Sansa could admit freely; time may fade memory, but what she was looking at drew out the same sweeping awe that King's Landing did the first time she had watched it grow large on the horizon.

Lord Tywin watched the eyes of his wife flick and glide over the scenery before her, she was motionless otherwise.

He also caught the upturn at the corner of her mouth; an action that softened the rest of her features.

"To your liking, my lady?"

He didn't smile the question at her in the slightest, but she knew well enough that he was not asking to create conversation; Lord Tywin truly wanted his wife's opinion.

She turned her head slightly to him and widened her delicate smile.

It was all the answer she offered.

To him it was a thousand fold answer.

Looking slightly left of where they stood, Sansa muttered softly, "Lannisport."

Her husband's agreement came in the form of a small noise; Sansa made her own when the size of the city she was looking at filtered into comprehension.

Even tiny and at a distance it was vast.

She knew the numbers, but they were only zeros after all, the scale of the city itself was what made it feel daunting - something that would only increase, much like its physical size, the closer they got.

"Three hundred thousand," she breathed.

Tywin scoffed lightly at her census recall, "More than that soon - I have approved expansion inland."

She merely raised her brow, continuing to stare distractedly, until she felt Tywin lean in close and breathe his words into the hair at her temple, made unruly by the wind.

"It's yours."

When she turned to face him fully, Tywin immediately felt his insides buckle; she looked as though she were about to tell him she did not want it. He knew she waited for the North, for her home; but as his wife, the West was her station by marriage, it was her duty if nothing else.

His jaw clenched to steel, his eyes locked in a stony fury...

"_Ours_," she said gently.

Sansa breathed the word and raised her hand in the same instant. He watched her settle it high on his breastplate, centered on his chest. Her palm covered the ornate lion's head roaring fiercely out at the world, and somehow hiding the angry animal doused his own ire.

His wife turned her head again to the land he so wanted her to see, yet her hand remained. He could feel the warmth of it, he was sure, and brought his own ungloved hand up to rest over hers.

Returning his attention to the forest, and the land, and the city, and past it all to the ribbon of sea glittering just beyond, he rubbed tiny circles on the side of her thumb. Caressing the part of her that lay simply, yet so complicated, over the heart of him; mayhap protecting it.

He did not know that it needed protecting, not with any amount of certainty.

What he _did _know was that he wanted nothing more than to share his own home, the keep he fought and bled for, with his family.

As Lord Tywin stretched in the bed that wasn't really his, on the boat that was taking him further from the sons whose existence he plotted, and the wife he calculated to bring into his life, he thought to make this the last campaign of his life.

Tywin Lannister was at an age where most men slowed to stop - atrophied even at the thought of pursuits which were once chased with limitless zeal in the years of youth.

But he enjoyed the chase.

Regardless of what it involved, it was part of the puzzle that existed around him - more so he trusted no one to perform at the level to which he pushed himself; therefore, it was simpler for him to step into the fray and control the outcome of what he was chasing to begin with.

There was a knock on the door of his chambers and with a gruff instruction to wait, he swung his feet to stand, preparing for the intrusion to continue. He was not surprised to see one of his squires, a boy from a distant Lannister relation that followed him from King's Landing; however, what did surprise him was that the youth looked uncomfortable.

"What is it Darin?" he breathed tiredly at the boy.

His squire held up a small parchment with a Lannister seal, cleared his throat, and spoke, "You have a letter, my lord."

"I see that," the lion gritted out, attempting to be patient.

When Tywin did not reach for the letter, the boy furrowed his brow and looked at him with bewilderment.

The old lion leaned down, almost nose to nose with his kin, and snarled, "_Who_ is it from, you fucking dolt."

The blood drained from the boy's face instantly. When he replied, it was with a squeaky pitch of fear.

"Lady Sansa, my lord."

As he straightened to full height, it was Tywin's turn to wear a look of confusion.

"This just arrived?" he uttered with a tone to suit his features.

"No, my lord. Lady Sansa gave it to me and said to bring it to you once we were on the water."

"Why would _my _wife give _you_ some cryptic correspondence?"

"I... I don't kn-... She trusts me, my lord?" Darin's face scrunched up as he inflected his statement to a question, perhaps hoping his lord would oblige him an answer.

The only thing Tywin obliged the boy with was an inclination of his head and a tightening of his lips, which meant the squire was dangerously close to enduring a reprimand.

"I'm sorry, my lord," he whispered as he ducked his head, "I don't know why Lady Sansa gave it to me." He offered the small letter higher this time, his arm trembling from holding it out so long.

Tywin breathed heavily as he snatched the missive away from the young man and closed the door without a word. He half wondered if he would find the boy out there in the morning because he hadn't dismissed him verbally.

The letter was barely that. The golden seal was heavier than the parchment and almost as large as the folded square it had been affixed to.

The old lion sat once more on the edge of his bed, dreading to find the insincere wish-wash that wives thought their husbands expected of them - then chided himself for the thought; he knew his wife was nowhere near that type of woman.

Pressing his thumbs down and away, the seal split and the missive unfurled to expose the neat script of his wife's hand.

No flourishes, just _her_.

_Tywin,_

_Know that I think of you often._

_Sansa_

He tried to smile, but it came out as a grimace; an answer to the tiny shards of agony and contentment, equal in their potency, that her note had stirred in him.

_His clever wife_.

She knew he would appreciate a terse sentiment far more than languishing in sentimentality, and it hurt in the best possible way to acknowledge that.

Tywin's hand absently drifted to a centered spot on his doublet, just below where the lacing came to an end, and gently pressed two fingers there to calm the roar that persisted even without the accompanying breastplate and ornate lion.

His musing was brief as a clatter of noise outside his cabin severed his calm rumination.

Aboard the ship were musicians, a dozen of them and, what he had been told was, a very gifted singer.

Tywin hated them all.

He had tasked Sansa with the responsibility of securing them; she had not asked as to why he would need a bard, but her passing looks of amused judgment caused him to growl one at her regardless.

"_They provide a modicum of relief for men under pressure of fighting and dying_."

She simply grinned, then nodded and hummed in her charmingly defiant way as she began her search.

However, _why _the infuriating men were traveling with _him_, he did not know; but if he were to hedge a bet, it would surely land directly at the feet of his wife.

He smirked at her passive cruelty.

Thoughts seemingly influenced reality as Tywin heard the initial chords and dull thumps of music starting midship.

Though they were traveling north, their ships were hugging the coastal waters, allowing for favourable weather - allowing for socializing on the deck instead of being relegated below.

Not that he minded; Lord Tywin had spent enough time at sea in his lifetime that he knew the value of past-time. But as soon as the first line of lyrics reverberated out of the singer's mouth, Tywin was exiting his bunk in long heavy strides to match his fury.

He did not have to go far, the boat itself was little more than two hundred paces from bow to stern, but it was wide and sturdy as was any flat-bottom trader.

The noise had congregated under the main mast; the scene unevenly illuminated by oil lamps securely affixed to various rigging.

When he approached, there was a surprised appreciation from the men who had gathered to listen; until, of course, they realized the wrathful look carried by their liege was in direct relation to the song being crooned for their entertainment.

The Great Lion stepped into the throng and unceremoniously snatched the bard by the throat - thus ending his own serenade.

"You_ know _better," he growled hotly in the ear of the young man.

As Lord Tywin pulled away from the singer, he noticed the musical compatriots riveted to their exchange. The men who were once lounging in the vicinity of the troop had all but vanished into the sea air; he took the opportunity to address the group in its entirety.

"One more _note_ of it," the lion's eerily sedate speech was as terrifying as that of a man prone to screaming, "one more _word_ of it, and you'll each exit this boat as an anchor."

It was the bard who spoke and bowed in reverence on behalf of the men around him, "Of course, my lord, of course," he knew his error, "It won't happen again... until... I mean..."

Tywin raised his hand, but did not say a word. He did not have to; he simply threw a glare that was both frigid and scorching - at the same time flexing his jaw in anger.

His message was clear.

The musicians were silent the rest of their journey.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

The mouth of the Weeping Water was too small for the hope of navigating a boat the size of a cog successfully to the Dreadfort. It left the only option of using a tender to transport men, horses, and provisions to shore. The process was tedious, but it allotted time to send ravens as needs be.

It was a full six days until the handful of ships were emptied and his men organized; Tywin had estimated four at the most

It was the extra time that gave them away.

The gathering of men in any number on the shores of the North was bound to raise curiosity and fear of all kinds. So when Lannister forces finally made their push toward the Bolton stronghold, it was little wonder that rows of pink banners bearing flayed men, met them less than half way into their journey.

Numbers were even on either side of the rough and shallow plane in which they encountered one another. But Lord Tywin would wager name and title that those wearing red and gold were the better skilled, better armed, and better led.

A white banner was hoisted on the Bolton side as a party of nearly twenty paced their mounts to the middle of the space in front of them.

Lord Tywin ordered assembly of his tent prior to raising his own white banner and leading a core group to meet the Bolton party.

"Some might think that white banner is Stark-aligned, Lord Tywin."

Roose Bolton was known as a merciless man, a shadowy figure of high cunning and low morals; he also purposely voiced himself with a soft timbre that required those listening to do so with undivided attention.

It was instant leverage.

Tywin would have none of it.

"You know very well what it means, Lord Bolton - I'm not here to banter asinine assumptions."

The Leech Lord was emotionless, "It's hardly an assumption when it is well known who your lady wife is." He craned his neck in what could only be his version of humour and grinned quite fondly, "Did she make the journey as well, my lord?"

Tywin tilted his head slightly to show his annoyance, his voice was not so subtle, "The reasons for me being here have nothing to do with my wife, Lord Bolton, as our correspondence would indicate."

The lion narrowed his eyes then, his tone sunk to murderous, "Would you prefer I leave?"

The northern lord knew Tywin Lannister was not speaking on pretense, and if he implicated a bluff the older man would ride away as easily as he arrived.

"No my lord, that won't be necessary," Bolton whispered.

"We are shy of a day's ride from your keep, my lord, I suggest making camp and arriving in daylight."

Lord Roose nodded in agreement and gave instructions to one of the men he rode out with.

Lord Tywin waited until he was the other man's sole focus before speaking once more, "Care to join me, then? When was the last time you had good Arbor wine?"

At the mention of wine Bolton met his eye, thinned his lips to a devious smile, and once again nodded his acquiescence.

After a war and a winter just about anything not made of grain or fermented milk was a luxury.

Tywin led his guest into the spacious tent his forethought provided, and it was not long until Lord Bolton addressed his inference a second time; this instance more pointedly.

"I understand what your letters said, my lord, you want Stannis. But you have to give credit to my hesitation in that you wed a Stark daughter, the older of the two, and this _is_ the North."

The marriage of the northern girl and the bastard was contract struck and signed well before the crown removed itself from the ploy of the Freys. And having the Bolton's continue their assumption that the girl was the younger Stark would remain a deliberate advantage.

He waited until his squire laid out the wine service and left before intoning sedately, "I wed for no more than an heir. My wife is fertile and obedient, and has done her duty to the _West_."

It was almost a challenge, Lady Bolton had recently delivered a daughter, not the true-born heir Lord Roose desired. His bastard was legitimized when his father was appointed Warden of the North, but it was never a wise man who took their legacy for granted.

Tywin let out a small sigh, "I am here on the command of the crown - my grandson - and my task is to be rid of the last false king who wishes to usurp him. I have no interest in the North otherwise."

"Not even for the seat of Winterfell?"

"Tell me Lord Bolton, other than a seat and a title, what would be my gain in the North?"

"Land, men, resources."

"The land is fruitless at best, the men are of no numbers to compare to the South - and the distance between them that makes even the simplest of summons at arduous affair - and what resources are you referring to? _Wool_?" it was the last word he drawled out sardonically.

"_I'm_ the one paying _you _in stores and resources, my lord. You have _ice _and _misery_, and you can keep it. As I said, I am here for Stannis, and to have the claim to the Stormlands undisputed."

Lord Roose remained undaunted by the overt insult to his seat, and the land that was his home.

Tywin cared nothing if he had, continuing in his hard neutral tone, "Of which _your king_ has generously offered land and titles for men of your choosing."

Bolton gave an airy hum, not necessarily of assent, "The Ironborn have a king as well."

Tywin made a bitter sound, "Let them choke on their own madness. They are hardly in a position to rebel - they know what happens when they try."

"So do _you_, my lord," Lord Bolton smirked, "_and_ your entire fleet."

The old lion set his impassive glare on the man standing no more than an arm's length away.

"Indeed. _And I encourage them to try it again_."

There was silence between the two men, but for neither was it uncomfortable.

"You and your lead men will, of course, be welcomed under my roof for your stay in the North, my lord."

Lord Bolton said the words in earnest as he sat at the broad table that took up most of the tent. He spoke as a matter of privilege that was his capacity as the Warden of the North, and if the irony struck him at all _that_ particular epiphany was kept to himself.

Lord Tywin raised a brow and imperceptibly scoffed at the quiet man, "Thank you, my lord. However I shall stay with my host - as is my custom."

In offering a cup of wine to the northern lord, Tywin understood the slight nod of acceptance he was given in return - towards both the Arbor gold and the lion's preferences.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

The pomp given to the heritage and naming of castles had always been something of a grating annoyance to Lord Tywin; mainly because his own was the namesake of those stupid enough to be bilked of it.

No one in the generations of Lannisters had thought to rename Casterly Rock and, as it stood, the inclination to do so currently would bear more harm than good.

But as he was introduced and guided through the Dreadfort, he could think of no other name so appropriate.

It was a dark place; even in daylight in the open bailey, the high walls and close-set buildings made it feel as though you were being swallowed into a shadow.

But as he viewed and walked and surveyed and observed, what he felt of the place was an overwhelming sense of spectacle. Skeletal accents and fixtures, blackened wood, and tales of what horrors could be found in the depths of the dungeons beneath their feet; it all added to bolster the legend of the family who inhabited it.

It skirted the realm of comedic.

Not that the man who hosted him was to be dismissed or taken lightly. Bolton history was a grim as the castle, but there were obvious chinks in that armour as well. Coincidentally, those flaws also ran in a garish vein.

Lady Bolton, _Fat Walda_, was short, round and, like the castle she dwelled in, fit her moniker succinctly. She had been introduced formally, clutching a babe that was fussy - trying to tear for her freedom from the strangers she was being subjected to.

The daughter had the markings of her father, straight black locks and grey eyes shining in a way children's are prone to. Lord Tywin took a fraction of a moment to care about what it would grow into - then dropped the thought without qualm or conscience.

Bolton's wife looked out of place in the North, in the company of her deathly silent husband. She had a look about her that Tywin knew to mean she was struggling to remain quiet. That with every word uttered around her, she was itching to speak, or ask, or vex her way into conversation.

She kept her tongue well tucked, and what a mercy that was.

It only took the girl walking toward a group of ladies to prompt her excitedly shrill voice into carrying; and cause Tywin to both flinch at the sound, and immediately want for his own wife.

Her smile, her touch, her _reticent_ grace...

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

"Lannister forces have made Barrowtown and White Harbor, my lord."

Bolton's man had interrupted an early meeting of Lord Tywin, his commanders, and Lord Roose and the leaders amongst his vassals, but the information was integral to each man.

Lannister soldiers had been camped outside Bolton's keep just under a sennight waiting for word from his other forces.

The lion addressed all those assembled, "They will continue their move north toward Winterfell, and garrison themselves prior to their march on the Wolfswood." He looked toward Lord Bolton for affirmation, "From what we know, Stannis has retreated into the deep of it with whatever remains of his southern forces and clan men, correct?"

The lord of the Dreadfort nodded, his simple action was degrees above his normal timbre.

"It looks that way, my lord," the reticent man offered. "My son has estimated Stannis carries no more than twelve hundred men at his service, those who survived the winter."

Tywin internally scoffed at the man's use of _son_. Legitimized or not, natural-borns will always be bastards.

Flicking the thought from his mind, he refocused on the task at hand - anything less would drift his concentration to his own sons.

True-born sons.

_Heirs_.

Lord Roose was fixated solely on the old lion, quietly taking in the older man's distraction as he continued in his quiet debrief.

"It has also been noted that after the attempted raid on Winterfell, the Ironborn, once relegated as captives to Baratheon, are now fighting in support of him."

Tywin took the information in stride. Anything could have happened to change that scenario - winter survival a main reason.

Above tactical failure on Stannis' part, the raid on Winterfell saw a heavy loss of Bolton forces as well as the disappearance of the bastard's own _Stark_ bride - news of which had reached Tywin by other means than the man in front of him.

Whatever the reason, the true question was to exactly _what_ kind of catalyst would be needed to change the heart of a Greyjoy.

Tywin articulated through his disruptive line of thought, "Numbers alone will see them fall. As long as your... son... is confident in his estimation, Stannis will prove little threat. And we can move forward with the dispersal of the Stormlands."

It was Ser Condon who spoke next, almost urgently, "The crown will also follow through their commitment to replenish the North..."

Tywin looked sharply at the man of House Cerwyn. If he were his own, the knight would be given an exit and no share of any bounty to serve as a testament of his skepticism.

But the larger truth was that every man in that tent, at that table, save those who came from the South, looked hollow. Their pallor was frightening, and their eyes were no more than watery orbs sunk within dark pits in their skulls. The heartiest was Lord Bolton, but even he was but a shade of his ghostly self.

"Supply ships and tradesmen have already been staggered in launch, they will be ready once Stannis and his forces have been eliminated."

The knight spoke in unbelievable relief, "Thank you, my lord."

Ignoring him, Tywin carried forward with his means and procedures.

"My regiments here are preparing to move toward Winterfell in two days time; they will group and organize with those already there and lead the charge to Stannis." He glanced over the faces at the table and was pleased to see that while they were weary, the Northmen were alert and comprehending.

He spoke directly to Lord Bolton, "_We_ will leave in a fortnight - flanking high through the wood with your forces."

Roose quirked his lip and nodded.

Tywin narrowed his eyes, his tone remained dry and serious, "I trust you know the wood better than Stannis and the Ironborn."

Roose looked pointedly at the older man, never once faltering under his glare, offering his soft inflection, "There are hunting trails my family has been using for hundreds of years, my lord, some traverse underground." He quirked his lip again, "No, they'll not see us coming."

"Why not eradicate Stannis before now? Why not use these advantages and rid yourself of him altogether?"

Tywin couldn't understand not exploiting an obvious weakness to achieve a goal. But as the quiet lord answered, the old lion knew exactly the type of man with whom he made his alliance.

"They have been well trapped in the Wolfswood for nigh on three years, my lord. I find it far more entertaining wondering what Stannis has been reduced to eating _this_ time around," Bolton smiled outright, "I hear his family perished in the snows."

Tywin scoffed lightly at his host and moved on all the same.

"Your banners are present and accounted for, correct? I wish to have the stores and provisions doled accordingly prior to our leave. I'll not have any of my men left to deliberate petty squabbles for grain and lard."

"They are, my lord." Bolton, for the first time, looked slightly uncomfortable. He cleared his throat, "We would like to host a feast, Lord Tywin, something of a celebration."

The old lion twitched the corner of his mouth, the rest of him stayed serious; what he was witnessing was a man acting on behalf of his wife. A feast would be expected under any other circumstance: however, true decorum would state otherwise - in that food stores were nowhere near adequate to support such a thing.

Lord Roose answered his thoughts, "We have been anticipating your arrival, my lord, and while it won't be opulent, a feast would do well to display solidarity with the crown to those who may still be left unsure."

The northern men at the table nodded, muttered, and, as Tywin scrutinized closely, exhibited a feral look of hunger.

Pure and simple, these men were starved - he could only assume what sacrifice were forced on these men at the expense of his arrival.

Lady Bolton had certainly not suffered.

He smiled to himself.

"Of course," he spoke with disinterest, "if it please, my lord, I would like to contribute from my personal stocks. But, if I may suggest, the feast wait a fortnight - until we are readied to leave."

"There is no need for the bulk of my own men to deplete what stores you have," Tywin continued, "and the small contingent that will remain at my aid will provide whatever clarification of unity you require amongst your banners."

Lord Bolton considered this and nodded after a short while.

"The hall is large here, but the reduction of men will help accommodate a higher comfort."

Tywin angled his head to side a tiny amount, pensive, "Hold it outside, my lord. My host will be gone, the space needed to house guests and serve a meal will be more than enough."

There was a murmur amongst the northerners.

"The cold will not rankle my sensibilities, I assure you," he smirked casually, "Wood is what you have in abundance, yes?"

The chatter slid into happier tones, but it was Lord Roose that looked most pleased.

Roguishly so.

"If you insist," he whispered with a smile.

It was an effort not to address Bolton's shift to calculation and assessment at securing a casual setting for his Southron guests. And in light of the man's celebratory history, Tywin had every reason to be distrustful - but whatever fraction of apprehension stirred in his gut, he bit back and pushed forward.

"I do, my lord. I also have infernal musicians I will gladly contribute - whom I also insist that you keep... as whatever form of entertainment you fancy."

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Precision.

As Tywin watched his men stack and store essential supplies, as had been negotiated, it was a word that ticked and flowed through his mind.

It was a word that had described him for decades, and yet it was a word that seemed his current antithesis... in part.

He was two men now.

Between the regimented soldier - the leader of men and ruthless warrior, the Hand of the King - and the _other _- the man that found life behind closed doors, the one that existed in private moments and peaceful lulls - he was unsure which he preferred. More so, which was to his benefit.

Each was useful and effective in their own way; one circumspect, one resolute.

Each was a deficiency; one of too narrow a focus, one of too broad a view.

His only hope was to live carefully between the two; something his wife, and sons, tugged at and nudged when necessary in order to maintain that delicate parity.

_Sansa_.

Gods, he could not remember the last time he spoke her name. He knew well enough that he thought of it, thought of her; in the slivers of night that when his body forced him to sleep. But it was nothing of arousal; not like those first nights rocking at sea, where he ached from the recent memory of her skin and breath and heat.

This was something else entirely, as though his mind was petrified it would forget. That it would easily misplace her from his thoughts, remove her loveliness from his dreams, replace them with something or someone else...

...Like it did with Joanna.

The ache in him had moved in the days since setting for the North; like a shadow, it followed his progress to settle north itself, to lodge itself deep in what felt like a hollow in his chest.

He missed her.

Shaking his head as if to muzzle his contemplation, Lord Tywin walked around the camp to better glean progress.

There were men building what looked to be a dais and long tables and benches being transferred from within the castle to outside its curtain walls.

The feast was to be large, and his generosity would not go unnoticed.

Further aside from the dining area, were stacks of casks. Hundreds of barrels contained everything craved by the men and women who would be attending; Arbor gold, Dornish reds, plenty of sweet reds on behalf of the Tyrells, and other things.

Far too much to drink in one night, but nothing that wouldn't eventually make it into the castle on his behest.

Tywin never enjoyed the gluttony of feasts and celebrations, but he thrived on the fact it was he alone to provide edacity for others. More than that, it was the way people acknowledged it to him, of him.

It was power.

Regardless of where it was based, awe, terror, respect, it was power all the same. And once gained, it was only a matter of maintenance.

As the sky began to darken into evening, Lord Tywin dressed to suit the pageantry expected, even in the wilds of the North.

He braced himself for the long observed ceremony aspect of celebration. It was the part of his station in life that he never truly loved or despised.

Endless faces of lords and ladies.

Countless compliments and whispered favours.

Yet here, treachery was nothing so overt.

Beards hid subtle conversation, shaggy hair obscured covert observation, furs covered blades that had been promised to be left behind. There was an ingrained element of suspicion; a wary politeness that he could not remember ever seeing in his own northern bride, but it was an attitude to which he could most certainly dole esteem.

As he sat high on the rough-planked dais, Tywin looked over the men and women and children who had come as their duty required, _as their hunger lead them_, and he better understood his wife's iron will to survive.

They each had it, these Northerners, a tenacity all their own - bred into their bones.

It was an organic form of kinship and courage, something they displayed proudly.

To a fault.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

It will always be the tiniest of things that work to betray a man; a word, a glance... one knuckle of one finger.

The evening progressed.

The night was cold, but nothing a heavier layer could not warm to something pleasant. The feast moved past food and drink, tables were moved; and under the stars of the impossibly black northern night, men and women danced and laughed in a carefree manner the lion was duly unaccustomed.

The frustratingly intolerable musician, the one Lord Tywin restrained himself from indulging his want to run through, was suddenly in a light that made him useful: entertaining those around him.

It was in the choral midst of what he was sure was some northern dirge that Tywin saw it. Saw Lord Roose minutely lift his hand and brush his knuckle in a barely noticeable trail over the back of his lady's hand.

In the normality of things, there would be no reason to question the affection a husband may show toward his wife; in the actuality that was the Bolton patriarch, particularly when he was in the company of the Hand of the King, Tywin knew it for what it was: complacency.

And complacency tends to breed opportunity.

But what opportunity could there be for an old lion flanked only by a handful of his own men?

"Bard!" Tywin clipped loudly at the first lull in the music, if only to prolong the gap.

The other musicians dampened their instruments and watched their leader scamp to the raised table that summoned him, waiting for the instruction of a new song.

"My lord," the singer gaily chirped with a flourishing bow, "my tongue is yours."

Tywin's hate flared openly at the chit, and was made doubly volatile at hearing the sniggering along the head table - lead by the trill giggling of Lady Bolton.

"Address me again with pluck, bard, and consider your words truth." His tone was like the summoning of winter, his thunderous glare equally elemental.

The warm mirth of the table froze and shattered at such icy disdain, as did nearly all of the chatter at the tables close to the makeshift dais.

It was the singer who spoke to break the spell of awful silence. This time there was not a sliver of mischief or coy, his eyes were suitably lowered in fear and submission.

"I- I am sorry for any offense, Lord Hand," his eyes were still turned down, his voice somber, "allow me to apologize, my lord, allow me to honour you."

Tywin said nothing, letting the insignificant man flounder in his terror; it was Lady Walda who turned to him and offered calm respite.

"He _is_ quite good, my lord."

The bard looked up in the direction of the praise, but it was the furious gaze of the lion that at once captured his attention.

"Prove it," snarled Lord Tywin.

The singer gulped loudly, bowed without a word and traversed the expanse of the feast area without seeming to place a single step on the ground.

In the next moments there was a shuffle of instruments before a loud cheerful tune could be heard, seemingly cascading from the mouths and fingers of the musicians.

Tywin had no idea what the song was, nor did he truly care. What he was riveted to was the seduction of the music and how the crowd fell into the rhythm with it. People drank in time and talked within the cadence of the drum. Women fawned and cajoled normally steadfast men into dancing, with no more than smiles offered like lyrics themselves.

He stood.

The people occupying the head table each turned to look, but they were nowhere near his focus.

Each step taken with grace and ease placed him squarely in front of a genuinely smiling Lady Walda.

"Your assessment of the bard is correct, my lady," it was purred to her with a twitch of his mouth, "Take my offer to dance as a confirmation of your opinion."

He held out his hand to the girl and flicked his eyes to those of her husband.

Lord Bolton would no more deny his request then he would have expected it in the first place.

With a nod from her lord husband, Lady Walda took the hand of the Great Lion and followed his lead from the dais to the flat hard-pack ground ahead of it.

Lord Tywin stopped there, it was curious, but Walda could only assume that he did not want to mingle too deeply in the throngs of merriment.

At the same time Lord Tywin turned to her and arranged his hands in a manner that suggested he danced well and often; he moved to the slower time of a new song that seamlessly blended with the first.

She smiled and leaned closer; this was an opportunity that only happened once. Not only was the Great Lion of Casterly Rock engaging in a dance, but he looked happy to do so. His eyes were bright and his demeanor was fairly open - as far as she could tell.

Lady Walda kept her smile as he lead in step after step, every one well timed and precious to her. She loved to dance, but her husband never indulged her.

The song once again changed; once again seamless; once again slower than the one prior.

The musicians were only a few bars in when Walda realized she and Lord Tywin had danced themselves far into the shadows; past the torches along the perimeter, outside of the feast area.

Walda giggled, "We have been carried out of the warmth of the crowd, my lord, perhaps-"

She was cut off by his hands, large and strong, making a calm journey over her arms, up her neck, to cup each side of her jaw.

She swallowed hard and her breathing quickened.

His face was shadowy in the dark, but she could see his silhouette bend the distance needed to bring his mouth just above her own.

Walda licked her lips - out of habit of course, nothing more than that.

Her eyes shuttered when he swayed closer the smallest of fractions, again she told herself it was out of habit.

His breath was of wine and spice; her insides fluttered - he tasted Southron.

She felt the barest of tickles when his lips moved, but what she did not expect was a statement to fall from them; one that cut like a blade.

"Speak one word and you _die_, woman."

Her eyes snapped wide, trying to see in the black where they stood; she must have heard wrong, something altogether different than a threat from Lord Lannister.

The fingers that once graced her with a gentle touch now dug into her skin.

He could feel her shiver in his hands, but she was trained enough to obey his command.

With a nod in the direction behind them, Lady Walda gawked as the features of the man who danced her into the darkness were illuminated as though it were daybreak. She then saw the barreling rush of flames, from all sides of the feast, column to the height of the tree tops.

The base of those same trees looked to take life; there was movement in waves - a trick of the light perhaps...

Perhaps...

Along with the blazing brightness, Lady Walda heard the brandishing of steel at a volume that was an awful acquaintance. Coupled with _that _horrible sound, there were cries of fear and death and pleading for lives; she began to tremble.

A firm hand gripped a hurtful hold of her fur collar as a warm flow of breath caught and swirled in her ear.

"_Seem familiar_?"

That was all the mesmerizing breath said before it moved away from her.

It was so much more than just a cruel taunt.

She stood, made of shivering stone, the very air she needed to live choking her in her terror.

For as much as she led others to believe, Lady Bolton was hardly stupid; and her immediate understanding was what lead to the inconsolable rush of tears and sobs that throttled through her.

Walda angrily blinked and swiped at the water that was blurring her vision, trying to see.

Looking toward the head table she witnessed Ser Condon being cut down mid-stride in defense of his liege.

Her husband.

The man who was paid so handsomely to take her as a bride was standing tall and defiant, fighting against being forcefully handled in an effort to haul him away - all the while searching methodically over the massacre before him.

Looking.

He was looking for her.

Their eyes locked for only a moment, but it was more than a lifetime. Lady Walda saw within that blink the man that only she knew; the man she had grown to care for. And it was in that same heartbeat eternity that her husband acknowledged their fate.

She watched his eyes slowly close as his body stopped resisting the Lannister men battering him to move - it was the apology of a man who had never once thought or cared to utter one.

Walda doubled over in her keening wails of fear and torment.

Her painful realization was a lightning strike: the sounds she made were just like those she heard so long ago. An echoing menace that found each and every Frey woman and child into the nooks and hollows in which they were hiding.

Her own screams mirrored those of Lady Catelyn.

It was nothing cathartic, she merely felt empty; but before there could be any contemplation, a set of rough hands grabbed her arms and pulled her away from Lord Tywin.

Away from the anguished bewailing of so many men and women and, _gods_, children.

Away from the blood that was already flowing like little rivers from the mayhem.

Away from the scores of crimson-cloaked soldiers butchering those not wearing the same.

Away from the music still being slowly sung and thumped and strummed; a loud, grotesque accompaniment to such a horrific scene.

The music...

Her soul shocked absolutely cold.

_The Rains of Castamere_.

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** A huge thank you to my beta, content developer, researcher, sounding-board, and internet life-partner: dealbreaker19 **


	2. Home pt II

***Note:** This chapter contains descriptions of violence and allusions of abuse. Please be aware of your own sensibilities and proceed accordingly.*

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Breathing deeply in the calm of daylight also meant inhaling a fine mist of soot, dust, and blood that always seemed to breeze around and cling to everything after any battle.

Aside from small skirmishes in the West with sea raiders, land marauders, and the Brotherhood; this was the first true assault in which Lord Tywin had been personally involved since the Battle of Blackwater.

The old lion expected to feel weary, bone tired, and to want nothing more than to sleep.

There was nothing of the sort in him.

The only feelings he could truly discern were satisfaction and anticipation.

He stood watching as the bodies of the dead were stripped of finery, weapons, and anything of value before being carted inside the Dreadfort and piled like cordwood in its main hall. Living captives, lower vassal families, lesser knights, and servants were herded into the hall as well.

High-born captives were relegated outside, penned in, and confined to a cluster of tents.

Lord Tywin turned away from the bustle of activity, entering his own tent in order to be apprised of progress.

Sitting around the large table were familiar faces, ones that had been around him most of his life. Granted, some of the faces were of sons that mimicked their fathers, but they were familiar all the same.

It was Ser Merlon Crakehall who spoke first; in a voice that Tywin conceded was more of the knight's mother.

"Winterfell was of no issue, my lord. What men were there under Ramsay Bolton fell into our swords willingly, for the most part; the rest, assorted Freys and Northmen, were shadows wielding steel heavier than they were."

"And Lord Manderly?" Tywin asked as he sat at the command of the table.

"His men were waiting at White Harbor, as assured. The man himself had lead of the ramshackle force including Umbers at the keep, my lord. There wasn't much left for us once we entered - seemed Lord Manderly was keen to end the lives of any Frey or Bolton man he could see."

The old lion lifted a brow at the assessment and spoke seriously, "_Wyman_ Manderly lead his men into battle?"

The younger man swallowed loudly and shifted slightly in his seat, he was now under the scrutiny of everyone at the table.

Clearing his throat, Ser Merlon thought best how to explain what he saw when he and his men entered the gates of Winterfell.

"No, my lord. Not _leading _as it were," his eyes were focused at a point on the table, "He was," swallowing again he lifted his eyes to his lord and spoke with an air of wonder, "taunting every man he could. My lord, the fight went to _him_."

There was a flit of chuckling around the assembled men; all except Lord Tywin who was looking at the knight expectantly.

"He wore no armour," the younger Crakehall continued and the jovial sense at the table blunted immediately, "but he swung his blade like a man possessed. No finesse, his girth barely let him pivot, but he stood in one spot and tore through those who thought he was an easy target, my lord."

Tywin nodded.

Wyman Manderly was the only man he knew that could _gain _weight during a northern winter; but when the same men who slaughter your son deliver his bones and strong arm your fealty, a father's fury knows no bounds.

Of this, Tywin was sure. And that same surety proved an advantage as it was part of the reason he sought the allegiance of the fat lord in the first place.

The other part, of course, was Lord Wyman's fierce loyalty to the Stark bloodline.

"And Bolton's bastard?"

"Tried passing himself off as a kennel man, but it was an Umber who sorted things out for us - Manderly's men vouched. He's been caged in the kennels since, my lord."

"And Stannis?"

Tywin watched as the young knight squirmed again. When he was satisfied with the look of torment, he glared at every single set of eyes at the table; each, in turn, feeling the same heft of discomfort as the first man.

He did not need an answer. He had already received the message of Baratheon slipping southwest through the wood to the Ironborn boats hidden in the waterways that severed the Rills and the Stoney Shore.

Lannister forces had Baratheon flanked north and south, beat by rights, but the wood was something unto itself. To hear his men speak, it grew thick and tall; only to clear and become boggy as though it was working against them.

Tywin knew it had nothing to do with magical trees and everything to do with failure of command. As he looked at the two chairs purposefully left vacant at the table he was sure his visual reminder that failure to such a capacity was punished by way of death was vivid and clear - if the sweat laden faces avoiding eye contact before him were anything to go by.

They were gone, of that he was sure, Stannis Baratheon would recover and regroup well away from the Westeros mainland.

Regardless of the fact that Lannister forces had destroyed the bulk of Stannis', it did not stop his agitated disdain; and he would be damned if the rest of his commanding men were not going to live under a cloud of suspect.

Tywin casually looked toward Lord Estren - though his voice was nothing of the sort, "I want the castle stripped of value, anything and everything: documentation, livestock, _everything_. It will be your charge to ensure its delivery to Winterfell."

"Yes, my lord," the man of Wyndhall nodded in affirmation.

"Take seventy men and begin now. Start at the top and work your way down, remove walls and floors if necessary," his mouth twitched, "leech it dry."

The older man offered a small grin as he rose from the table and bowed his leave.

Lord Tywin then addressed his council in general, "Set aside hay and pitch and be ready at first light. I'll not wait - you have a day to secure and complete your tasks."

He observed the quiet rumble of conversations dictating and confirming assignments amongst his leaders.

A voice at the far end of the table summoned Tywin's attention, it was the deep grit tone of Flement Brax. He was a younger man who looked twice his age; having lead and commanded Lannister forces throughout the War of Five Kings and kept vigil first at the Twins during what turned into the Red Wedding, then at the siege of Riverrun through the first year of winter. He was a man that enjoyed war and, more so, was good at it.

"Karhold was an easy fold, my lord, the wanted captives have been penned with the rest."

Before Tywin could respond, the young commander spoke something sinister - and altogether expected.

"The ones confined to the hall, my lord, there are some that can surely serve the men - at least for tonight."

Lord Tywin considered his man in what he was asking. Even by boat there were camp followers, women _and men_ who find work in the mainstay of a moving military environment; washing, cooking, and yet they earn even more by expanding their trade to include their bodies.

But some men have other wants, other preferences, those that are not found in the confines of a transaction.

It took no more than a heartbeat to reply.

"You have your orders, ser, you know your priorities. As long as those are met I don't care how your ranks occupy their time. But be warned, it goes to torch at dawn - any man who feels the need to dip his cock at the same time will left to burn."

The old lion turned sinister in his own right, "No exceptions."

He floated his gaze around the table, "Let the rest of your men know that those in the hall are for their use, but also let them know the consequence of stupidity."

There was a murmured wash of thanks and acquiescence.

When the noise had subsided, Tywin centered on Ser Forley Prester.

"I want you to take your regiment, as well as the Umber men you rallied from Last Hearth, and pick a path northward along Last River to the base-mountain plateau and hold there."

He took a drink of his wine and cleared his palette, "You will wait for the mountain clans to emerge, and bring their... _lord _here."

Ser Forley furrowed his brow in confusion to this liege, then flashed something that looked like affrontedness.

"My lord, we encountered no mountain men in our descent from Last Hearth, not even a scouting party-"

Tywin's fatigue made itself known in that moment.

He looked of fury and spoke of finality, snarling directly at the factious knight.

"I need no more than a hunch, and the cunning of a simpleton to predict the strategic maneuvering of savages."

Narrowing his eyes, he seethed, "Turn north and _wait_."

Ser Forley stared blankly, blinking intermittently - as though he had to transpose his lord's words into pattern in order to understand them.

"Now!" Tywin bellowed.

The knight jumped and scurried, apparently no longer requiring translation.

The old lion took a moment to compose his thoughts, and continued.

"Where's the fat one's babe?" he asked, of no one in particular. When there was only silence, he clarified in annoyance, "_Bolton_, Lady _Bolton_! Where's her _fucking whelp_?!"

His closest commander, a knight from Kayce, spoke without hesitation then, "With a nurse, and the rest of the captives, awaiting transport to Winterfell, my lord."

Tywin's ire ebbed a fraction, leaving the familiar comfort of uncaring indifference.

"Take the nurse and babe to perish. If the mother squeals or resists, kill it in her arms." he looked at the man, unmoved and final, "I don't care your method, blunt or sharp - it dies. The same with _any _children in that transport, they will not make the journey."

The man nodded, equally unmoved, and rose to follow the orders he had been given.

As though the knight's exit were a cue, Tywin dismissed the rest of his officers until after the noon hour.

Watching his men leave Tywin could almost hear his brother, as though he were standing at his side.

_The Northerners were to be left to the discretion of Lady Sansa,_ Kevan's voice chided inside his head.

Even when imagined, Tywin's brother did not remember his place; it made him scoff into the emptiness of the large tent.

However, it was truth; the Northerners were to be held for northern justice. But this was a choice he had to make, and accountability for it he would willingly own.

Sansa would not make this decision; the death of those considered innocent would not be a path she would take.

The sharper truth was that Tywin did not want her to.

_...you are every bit the monster you have _ever_ been._

The Great Lion swallowed his thoughts, hardened his resolve, and lived his lady's honesty.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Roose Bolton's request for a meeting came hours after the screams of his wife, as well as other men and women within the confinement camp, had finally grown hoarse - then petered to nothing.

Without preamble, those under the age of three-and-ten met the mercy of a blade.

The process was anything but merciful.

As a matter of tactic, the encampment was upturned and swept for children.

As a matter of control, those found were herded and swung upon just outside the perimeter of the captives reach, but well within their sight.

The actions were brutal if nothing else, though it was useful in culling anyone who would have been a nuisance during the march to Winterfell. Better now to identify those men and women who would throw themselves in a distraught rage at Lannister men.

_Westermen who were happy and willing to spill more than the blood of children_.

It was something of a slaughter, but it also proved to quell the fire of defiance living in those left to look on.

Those preferring judgment from a Stark rather than a Lannister.

When Bolton was announced and brought in front of Lord Tywin, he looked no less than he did the evening previous. He stood tall, askew from where the lion sat at the war table, his grey eyes piercing in their indelible fury.

His mien was pretext, and it was openly apparent.

Tywin looked on with cool eyes, almost drowsy and bored in their appearance. His were contrary to the prisoner brought before him.

"What is it Bolton?"

"_Lord_ Bolton-"

"You are no such thing," he intoned offhandedly.

The old lion casually filled a cup with wine, eyed the man, then sipped without so much as an offer to partake.

"If _that_ was the clarification you were seeking, you'll be escorted back to your accommodation."

There was nothing outwardly palpable in the Northerner. Even in light of his own ruin, Roose Bolton could not be swayed to falter, emotionally or otherwise. It was a behaviour so ingrained that it had become the embodiment of his character - something Tywin knew of intimately.

So he pushed.

"Your family is... comfortable, I presume?"

Bolton tilted his head back a minute amount, his jaw flexed and worked in fine tremors.

"Under what authority does the crown attack the North, my Lord Hand?" his inflection was soft as ever, his respect was intact as well.

Tywin raised a brow slightly then took his time to sip once more; as the cup descended, so did the edges of his mouth - frowning in disappointment as one would to an unruly babe.

"I am not here at the behest of the crown, Bolton." His brow raised higher to accentuate his continued chagrin, "The Stormlands have been long seized and occupied. Stannis Baratheon is no more a threat than... _you_."

Roose took a moment to absorb the fallout of deceit before narrowing his own eyes and peppering his words with as much bravado as his timbre would allow.

"My banners will be called, you've only succeeded in starting another war."

The old lion snorted derisively.

"And what bannermen will those be? The ones currently lying dead, the ones that have been captured, or the ones that welcomed me with open arms since the outset?"

He held his cup higher and paused; half toast, half smug contemplation.

"Your banners are as loyal to you as _you_ were to your own king," he sighed, spiritless, "It seems the North is quite short on loyalty."

"Leave it to you to hide behind your position,_ my Lord Hand_, for the profit of betrayal."

From any other man, the statement would have been sneered and spit out. From Bolton it sounded like a calm claim of truth.

Tywin waved his hand at the wrist and dismissed the notion like he was addressing a maiden.

"Betrayal nothing. Like I said, the crown is well removed from this endeavour." Tywin felt an element of pity for the man, "My signature is the same regardless of document - and if it's the only thing warranting your interest, that only proves your own fault."

"So this _is_ about your wife," this time Bolton _did_ hiss his words, and at volume.

The Great Lion inhaled long, and exhaled in the same manner; his eyes closed for a moment then opened to his natural severity.

"Shouldering my wife's debt is my pleasure, Bolton. That is my duty to her not only as her husband, but as a Lannister."

There was no defeat in the Northman, nothing that physically told tale of resignation.

"Then what of us, my lord? You say we are marching to Winterfell - but to what end?"

Tywin wore eyes of granite and spoke in tones of steel, "The fate of your life is not for me to determine, but I can only guess it will be forfeit - as well as those of your vassal lords and what remains of your families."

The old lion spoke as he looked to parchments laying on the table in front of him, "_My_ concern are your lands and coffers - no more," and was about to order dismissal when Bolton sounded almost a shade of impressed.

"Nothing by halves, my lord."

Tywin flicked his eyes to the man, smirking after a moment, "As you will soon see."

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

True to his word, Tywin looked on as the Dreadfort was set ablaze at the first light of dawn.

The main hall of the castle was fortified, save one entrance; the perimeter of the room packed with mounds of hay. It was the soldiers amongst the group left alive in the hall that truly knew their fate.

Truly knew Lord Lannister was offering charity.

Though some of those same men still had it in them to lunge and fight for the freedom of dying by way of steel, most others simply sat and waited.

The women and children who survived the night, enough to be more than a bleeding husk, could be heard questioning the silent red-cloaks as to the reason feed was being piled around them. Yet once the dry forage was lit, the same voices could be heard coughing in gasps through their recognition, then willingly gulping the smoke to end their misery.

To escape the inevitable flames.

It did not take long for greedy tongues of orange flame to lick around and taste the timber of the structure, coughing out a thick oily fog from cracks in the mortar and broken windows.

Amongst the hundreds of barrels of wine so many Northmen happily tapped and drank from, before it was cut out of them, were stores of pitch. The black sticky fuel that was currently igniting every level of the nightmare castle.

The Dreadfort would be razed beyond imagination, and Tywin meant for the proof his scourge to be seen in the sky from the Wall to Winterfell.

_Nothing by halves_.

It burned for three days before the heat was low enough to approach the stony carcass.

There was nothing of wood remaining in the building. Trusses and roofs were smoldering open, nothing more than screaming maws aimed at the clouds; floors and beams holding up levels had collapsed on themselves - some taking walls with them.

Even the mortar of the castle's outer walls had turned to sand in some places because of the enormous amount of heat exuded from the furnace that was the main building.

The hall itself _still_ burned. As with oil in a lamp, the fatty flesh of those trapped inside refused to yield quickly. The room burned with a small but continuous flame; the red glow of the dead climbed the walls of what was left of the hall, and was the only thing one could see in the dark.

It was a lurid living hell that emitted an unnatural heat and offered a smell that should have repelled hunger instead of encouraging it.

There would be new songs scripted to laud this conquest, of that there was no doubt.

"The fire has done most of the work, my lord," Lord Estren began as he stepped to the side of his liege, each of them looking at the orchestrated devastation, "the walls that haven't fallen, will only need a push."

Tywin didn't look away from the debris, eyes squinting at the mercy of the stinging ashen air.

"Bring _everything_ down."

The old lion turned then to his subordinate, a malevolent sneer painting his mouth.

"And burn it again."

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

When Ser Forley Prester reentered the Lannister camp, he did so with more men then he had set out.

As predicted, scouting parties of mountain men had descended out of curiosity. Always weary of southerners, it was only with the encouragement and assurance of the Umber men accompanying Prester that secured an audience with their leader.

The Harclay was large man, both in height and size. He wore a full beard that, like the shaggy hair on his head, was odd mix of golden blond and dark brown. But his eyes were the contrast; they were such a light blue they were almost white, like the ice atop a frozen lake.

He was a young man, no more than five-and-twenty if one were to estimate, but the harshness of life no matter where it was lived always seemed to add a decade.

There was a fearlessness about him, in how he casually left his own men to walk with the handful of red-cloaks, in how he was more intrigued than cautious of meeting the man who carved out the flaying men from existence.

He was not disappointed.

Lord Lannister was standing as he entered the tent, and though he was nowhere near his bulk, Harclay knew the tall older man was anything but frail. And only a fool would assume otherwise.

Harclay took the seat offered him at the large table; along the side, a short distance from where Lord Tywin sat at the head of it.

It was the lion who spoke first, "What are your intentions, Lord Harclay?"

"Depends."

Tywin lowered his chin, his eyes clearly conveying annoyance, silently demanding clarification.

Harclay understood.

"What are your intentions with my people captured after attacking the King?"

"I can assure you, my lord, whatever Northmen are left from Stannis' camp will not find prosecution with me."

"And why'd that be?"

"The North has been torn apart for too many years, and it will take just as long for it to be mended. It will not serve to have it ravaged further."

"But you hold Northmen captive here already - burn their castle, kill their babes." There was no malice in his words; there was barely interest, the mountain man simply needed to know why he should be inclined to trust.

"The Boltons and their ilk will answer for the murder of Robb Stark and his banners-"

"No, _south man,_" the Harclay swished his hand as if to push aside the lion's words,"why do you _care_?_"_

Tywin took but a heartbeat to assess the burly young man who thought to question him.

"The Seven Kingdoms are best unified."

Harclay made a show of sniffing the air, taking in the acrid reminder of what the lord in front of him thought of _unification_.

"The North survives better on its own."

"Yet you follow Stannis, a southern king?" Tywin arched a brow.

"He made promises, lands and titles and all," Harclay sighed. He had nothing to do with those negotiations, had nothing to do with the unhappy looking king his elders knelt to.

This was something the old lion could understand, this was something tangible.

"Did he follow through? What have you received?"

"His war still goes on. We wait till after to be squared."

At his own words, there was a pinch in the mountain man's brow signifying displeasure.

Lord Tywin used it.

"Stannis Baratheon's war has ended. You can die waiting for your wandering king, or you can swear to my son when he sits in Winterfell."

The look Harclay wore was one of incredulousness; he scoffed in the same manner.

"A lion instead of a stag, all Southron."

"My wife is a _Stark_, a direwolf." Tywin assessed the reaction of the man in front of him, at the same time he felt a surge, _of something_, at his own words.

The Harclay was unmoved, but let a mysterious light flicker over his countenance; something Lord Tywin immediately exploited.

"Lady Sansa, _eldest_ daughter of Lord Eddard Stark, has bore me sons, Lord Harclay. Stark blood will once again be seated in the North," he narrowed his eyes at the chieftain and offered something _no_ man could refuse, "along with Lannister wealth."

The mountain man smiled then, and even _that _looked wild.

"When you leave today, take a share of spoils collected from Bolton's men - armour and steel." Tywin moved quickly to secure his purchased trust, "I will also offer you food stores and horses."

"Land?" The Harclay narrowed his eyes shrewdly, "I'll take this burning demon-castle too."

The minute curve at the corner of Tywin's mouth was an indication of something close to amusement.

"It's not mine to give as we speak, but what I _can _promise is if you pledge fealty, you will be guaranteed lands. There are many keeps that now stand empty."

"How many are mine?" The Harclay pressed, interested at last.

There was no indecision in Lord Tywin, "How many clans can you convince to kneel with you?"

Again there was a bright feral smile beneath the heavy brown beard.

"_All _of them."

Tywin lifted both brows and scoffed lightly, "You do that, and I will personally see that you get your castles, my lord."

"You have mountains in your westlands, Lord Tywin?" This time, the Harclay's words were rigid and commanding, "You have castles there too?"

Lord Lannister leaned forward to the man; in every hair-breadth of distance he lost his seriousness and gained his subdued fury.

"Yes, there are both in the West and no, there is nothing for _you_."

When the mountain man angled his head back, narrowed his eyes and chuckled, Tywin knew he was the lesser of the two - that Harclay had been given exactly what he wanted.

_Anger is the first sign of defeat_.

He could have the man killed for the sake of his own satisfaction, for the pleasure of watching him die eating his laughter. But it would serve no purpose other than that.

As much as Lord Tywin was ruthless, he was equally premeditated.

Producing a heavy parchment, laden with both the Lannister seal and that of the crown, Tywin placed it in front of Harclay with a quill and ink.

"I presume you know how to sign your name, Lord Harclay?"

The words implied insult, but the old lion left nothing in his inflection that would support the notion. The mountain clans were brutish, but they were integral in the North, and he would not afford even himself the snobbish want to berate a leader of those people.

It took a handful of moments before the younger man nodded at the contract, as if agreeing with _it_ instead of the lord presenting it.

With a surprising finesse, the Harclay's name was scrawled; with unsurprising skill, the same man reached under his heavy fur cloak and produced a blade.

The action was met with the sentries edging the inside of the tent drawing their swords, wordlessly waiting for reason or command to use them.

Harclay shook his head and laid the knife, pommel first, toward the older man.

"Words are wind, Lord Tywin. I offer a gift proving my loyalty to Stark blood."

The blade was quality, castle forged, that was easy enough to see. The hilt was a bone or a large tooth that had a black patina caused by decades of handling.

The weapon was nothing if not fine, and it took no effort for Tywin to acknowledge this.

Leaning back as much as his chair would allow, the old lion unfastened a large leather and crimson velvet pouch from just behind where his scabbard would normally sit; then reached forward again, setting the bag gently, respectfully, on the table.

Harclay lifted the pouch with interest, hefted it in his hand, admired the intricate tooling of the leather, before pulling open the draw and huffing a small laugh.

Of course the west man would give him gold. More gold than he had ever seen in any one time.

Burrowing his hand in the cold pack of coins, listening to the distinct sound the precious metal made when tumbled against itself, Harclay removed a handful and left them beside his own offering.

He made to stand and watched Lord Tywin scrutinize the fistful of currency he left behind.

"It's never wise to leave a rich man poor," he grinned.

Tywin neither confirmed nor denied the chieftain's prophecy, instead he opted to ignore him; waving instructions to the guards, he sought to dismiss him altogether.

At the entrance of the large tent the Harclay stopped, turning his attention back to his host - addressing him.

"Your wife, she's the one they say is kissed by fire."

It was not a question, and this time the chieftain's coy smile did nothing but ignite suspicion - Tywin's voice was evidence of that.

"She's _built_ of it, and you'd do well to remember that, savage."

Harclay was undisturbed by the great lord's words. He simply nodded his head in little movements and spoke without humour - an uncanny echo of the first men themselves.

"Then _you're _the lucky one, lion."

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He sat in silence for the remainder of the afternoon; stewing in agitation.

There was a melee in him, one that fought and charged at the thought of his fire-built wife. Sansa had now become a noticeable weakness, and it infuriated him.

Her last raven spoke only of political necessities and assurances from the West; her words were detached, and it was like receiving correspondence from himself. It should have pleased him to no end, instead it drove his longing - his weakness - abandoning his will.

He wanted _her_.

He _wanted_.

Tywin stood and summoned one of the guards standing outside the entrance of his tent; he spoke as he turned to the young man who entered.

"Send for a girl, make sure she's clean," his tone was hard and emotionless.

"And willing, m'lord?" The young soldier japed, all smiles and humour.

Lord Lannister wore a look of such malevolence that the guard could be heard shaking in his armour.

"I want a girl meeting my specifications," his tone matched the deadly intensity of his eyes, "I don't care if it's your _sister_ and you have to bind and drag her."

The young man swallowed hard, "Y-Yes m'lord, right away."

Tywin barely flicked his fingers and the guard was gone.

When the young girl was shown into his tent, Tywin waited for the guard to leave before he lifted his eyes to her.

She was pretty enough, looked clean; she would serve.

"Do not speak, just nod or shake your head; do you understand?"

The nervous girl nodded at him, barely making eye contact.

"Do you know how to please a man with your mouth?"

She blinked rapidly for a moment then nodded her head once.

"Good. Strip."

The girls wide brown eyes darted around for a heartbeat, it was the only interruption prior to her starting to untie and peel away her simple dress. The gaze from her lord was so acute it made her forget how simple lacing worked, but the cruel curl of his lip quickly revived her knowledge.

She stood shaking, her rag of a dress piled around her feet, he could tell she was stopping herself from covering her teats and cunt with her hands. The girl was underdeveloped, barely out of childhood by the tell of breasts, her mound had hair but it was still fine.

She would serve.

"Step further into the light and get on your knees." Tywin pointed to a spot in front of him.

The girl did as she was told, kneeling near the feet of her liege; and when he stepped closer toward her, she applied what she had learned at an even younger age and reached for the lacing on his breeches.

Lord Tywin slapped her hands away with such a force that it turned her body with the momentum and caused her fingers to tingle sharply then go numb.

"Put your hands on me again, and I will relieve you of their burden." He narrowed his eyes at the frightened girl and seethed further, "_Do you understand_?"

The girl fought the tears that were creeping up on her and nodded emphatically.

"Sit up taller, _put your hands behind your back_, and open your mouth." it was an order made almost in anger.

Watching the girl follow his instructions, Tywin unlaced his breeches, pulled out his cock and began stroking it over her face.

When her mouth was open enough for his liking he rested the tip on her tongue and addressed her in warning, "I'll not feel your teeth, will I?"

Her attention flicked to the blade on the table; she shook her head a tiny amount, careful to keep his cock on her tongue.

"Suck." he commanded.

The old lion closed his eyes at the feel of her mouth closing over him.

In his mind when he looked to his cock, it projected wild waves of auburn tickling the sides of his thighs, pale freckled shoulders swaying in cadence to his shuddering moans, and the delicate bow of pink lips swallowing his length.

He involuntarily huffed a groan at the thought.

Tywin's memory leapt to a time early in their marriage when he had taught Sansa this singular pleasure; at which a wave of excitement flooded his prick, prompting the mouth there to take him deeper, to suck harder.

His wife wanted to please him, thoroughly embarrassed as she was, and at first it worked to his advantage; she would gag and choke and apologize on the verge of tears, but for every sigh that dripped off his lips and every twitch she felt under her hands or on her tongue, she became confident, bolder, and before long it was an act he feared was shattering his restraint.

Until Sansa would look at him.

She would look up directly at him with eyes that he could always read.

No pretense, no lies, just honesty, and it would remove all doubt from him. It was as if she could sense _that_ in him as well, because it was only after he was past his own hesitations that she would smile.

_Gods..._

Her lips would curl up and around his girth, so filthy, so beautiful, and all she wanted to do was suck his cock; but her smile told him she was seeking her own gratification from taking him to such heights.

He would gently fist her tresses and watch her wriggle and churn in joy and concentration, until he spent; _oh fuck_, she would lap his seed like it was water found in the great sands of Dorne.

Tywin's hand reached forward and fisted into the head full of hair at his groin.

His error.

It felt different.

_She _felt different.

She _was _different.

He saw Sansa behind his closed eyes again; this time without the context of his pleasure; she smiled all the same. The smile that told him he was wanted, that he was adored; the exact smile his sons offered when they were themselves happy.

Every fraction of arousal he was exhibiting moments before, retracted and was replaced by... _guilt_?

Whatever it was, it bloomed into rage and caused him to back away from the naked child in front of him.

There was a hint of terror in her eyes and it only added to his already unsteady fortitude.

He stared at her, his limp wet cock hanging just outside his breeches; stared at the girl kneeling, bared, her mouth opened slightly, her lips and chin slick with proof of her trade.

Tywin could not stand to see her anymore and flicked his eyes to the disarray of the table he was leaning on.

"Another p-part of m'body might p-please, m'lord," the girl whispered, her voice as nervous as the rest of her.

Tywin looked at her pointedly, incredulously, "You have nothing I _desire_, whore; and I told you not to speak," he tucked his cock away and leaned toward the still-kneeling girl, "Stick out your tongue, whore."

She wore a look of utter panic, her eyes darted to his hand, where it rested on the table, just next to the dagger. She whimpered and was too fearful to comply.

He curled his lip and sneered at her, "Stick it out yourself, or I will do it _for you_."

Tears were pouring down her cheeks, she was barely holding back her sobs, but he watched as her tongue emerged slowly.

When she heard metal scraping across the table she closed her eyes, and when she felt its coldness on her tongue, she whined out her cries even harder.

There was no pain, but she figured that would come eventually, the heaviness of the metal just stayed on her tongue and she prayed to The Seven that Lord Tywin would end her misery sooner rather than later.

Instead, she felt his fingers under her chin, applying pressure to close her mouth. She complied quickly, pulling her tongue back in, but was startled when she determined the cold weight remained on it. She snapped her leaking eyes open to see Lord Tywin staring at her, hatred still in his look, a snarl still on his lips.

"Is your tongue worth three dragons?" It was so full of venom.

With the coins on her tongue, her only choice was to nod.

"_Get out_," he growled.

The girl moved quickly to stand and gather her clothing; when she started to dress however Lord Tywin advanced on her in one stride, peerlessly livid.

He grabbed her hair viciously and kept walking to the entrance of his tent, pushing his naked catch ahead of him; he did not speak a word, but his grip was tearing her scalp, causing the young girl to keen and scream around the gold behind her teeth.

Within a pace of the opening, Tywin used the hold he had on the girl's hair to pitch her forcefully through it. The startle-turned-mocking of the guards stationed just without confirmed his aim was true.

He cared nothing of them, or her.

_Her_.

The only _her _his mind could focus on was the only one that mattered, and she was nowhere near.

Not yet. Though, she was away and getting closer.

Tywin returned to his seat behind the large table, concentrating to regain his composure. He was out of breath and highly agitated; bringing his right hand up from his side, he rested it in the center of his chest, cushioned in the plush of his doublet, above his heart, over the roar; he closed his eyes and thought of his wife.

His wife made of fire, not gold.

He dug his fingertips into the fabric and instantly felt a calm roll through him, instantly deepened his breathing.

Instantly ached where his palm lay.

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The march from the Dreadfort to Winterfell was made all the more treacherous by sudden heavy snowfall. The cold wet danger that befell the Lannister troop and convoy as they picked their way along passages through the Lonely Hills was something unknown in the South; it would be an experience that could only be related amongst those who witnessed it.

With so many men and women traveling by foot, and whipping flurries coupled with stretches of knee-deep mud, the trek was made brutally slow, and deadly.

There _were _casualties amongst the prisoners, but no one of immediate importance; a second son here, a distant cousin there. Each were left where they fell, to feed the other animals trailing such a cavalcade of misery.

But even the excruciating journey could not compare to what Lord Tywin found at Winterfell.

In the weeks since his forces arrived, and behind them tradesmen, it looked as though no work had been accomplished. Winterfell was little more than mismatched workmanship; unskilled roofs overtop impeccable foundations, flimsy gates of trash-wood manhandled into place, sporadically lined the formable inner and outer granite walls. The moat between those walls had been left to rot - and even with the passage of years, the sink of putrid flesh sullied the air up to the guard towers.

Buildings were scorched, walls had collapsed, most rooms were uninhabitable; yet Tywin could not help but see what the castle could be, _would be_, in the moons to come. His wife would ensure it, and he would do whatever it took to allow her that culmination.

What he planned as a cursory inspection of the castle turned into hours of detailed investigation and casual adventure. The Great Lion had never seen Winterfell in all his years. In his youth, he had sailed as far north as Bear Island, but had never ventured on the mainland higher than the Fingers.

His concerns were solely of the South and the West at that time; his father the cause of the latter, Aerys eventually the excuse for the former. The North was little more than a jape, existing for the amusement of those far more sophisticated - intellectually and otherwise.

Yet it was the North who proved the catalyst of ending a dynasty reign and changing the course of history.

Not _the North_, he corrected, a _northern_ _girl_.

_His _northern girl was fortnight of travel away, if the sea fared well. He refused to let her journey the King's Road - not with her name, not through the Riverlands. She would come by way of boat, by way of White Harbor; allowing the exposure she requested to the land and its people, just on a more limited scale.

These were his thoughts as he wandered the Great Keep, as he stood in one of the only rooms not damaged by fire or squatters.

It was a guest suite, and while he had an inclination to ready the lord's chambers for his wife's arrival he was not so much a fool to think she would sleep well, if at all, in that particular set of rooms.

Though she would want to consider them for a more permanent residence; however, he'd let Sansa make that choice.

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The burgeoning light of morning saw Tywin walk into the expansive kennels at the west end of Winterfell's bailey.

It was an area currently functioning as a gaol for the overflow from the taxed dungeons and within was the reason he was summoned from sleep.

His sword had been drawn forth and presented just before reaching the low sloped building, his irritation since he was awoken.

"What kind of prisoner matter sees my own gaoler beyond purpose?" The words were spoken to the Lannister man with as much cold as the morning frost defined the air used to create them.

"It's the bastard, m'lord," the man tried to salvage his reasons for calling his lord, "he'll not give up the toothless cripple. Fucks 'im for all to see, then says he's highborn."

Tywin flicked his annoyed glare toward the two figures penned up behind the makeshift bars.

Bolton's bastard had a white haired gimp kowtowing at his feet, he was stroking the thing as though it were a dog.

Lord Tywin returned his attention to the gaoler, sneering in disgust, "The bastard was to be held solitary, why is this man even in there? Where did he come from?"

"Seems he came in with the flow of stragglers from Stannis' camp, m'lord," the man nervously cleared his throat, "he'd not harm anyone, the cripple's barely got fingers left. Just found 'im in there last night and he's not left, even to threats. We were told not to open the bastard's cage for nothing, m'lord." The man was almost panting out his last words.

Looking back to the men inside the cage, Tywin spoke softly to the man at heel to his master, "Come here, ser."

Ramsay bellowed in defiance, "He's a _lord_!"

Without missing a beat, the lion purred, "Come here, my lord."

Snow kneed the stooped man in the side to prompt compliance of Lord Lannister's request.

The white haired man crawled the distance to the front of the cage, not once lifting his head to look at or acknowledge his new liege. As he approached the gate of the enclosure, Lord Tywin instructed the gaoler to open it; the cripple turned his head to his master and waited for Snow to nod before crawling out.

The gate was being secured as Tywin addressed the thing made of putrid stink and shivering bones.

"What is your name, my lord?"

The man did not look to his master for permission, or even an answer, but stuttered out a voice that sounded of absolute suffering bound in fear.

"_Reek_, it rhymes wi-"

The madman's introduction was ended by the unfaltering swing of a heavy golden-hued blade.

For endless moments, every set of eyes were mesmerized by the rolling tumble of white hair, followed by the belching waves of thick blood purging from where that white hair once rested.

The spell was broken as Lord Tywin spoke trenchantly to his remaining captive, "A lord no more."

Just as quickly, he spoke to two of the guards flanking him, "Take this imbecile," pointing his gore laden sword at the now begging and apologetic turnkey, "to the stocks and rouse his commander."

With a quick nod the guards seized the man and dragged him away. At the same time the bastard flung himself at the entrance of the cage, frothing in his fury.

"Do you _know _who that was?!" It was said with a conviction that indicated Tywin had removed an advantage from the man.

"I don't care who you fuck," his tone was everything save interested.

The bastard was livid, every muscle set to shiver, but his eyes were calm. It was a combination that signified the ability to act and think independently; that he was a well practiced liar.

A mummer...

But it was an attempt to bait that sprang from his mouth instead; and while it was assurance of Snow's lack of suitable faculties, Tywin found it entertaining all the same.

"Of course you don't care, my lord. Who are _you_ to judge?" the bastard sneered. "Tell me, do you make Lady Lannister sheer her cunt so she feels the same as the first time you stuck your cock in her?"

..._and_ a fool.

The old lion gave the young man nothing, no words, no indication of offence; simply turned on his heel and made to leave, the headless carnage left to rot in his wake.

"My Reek was a masterpiece!" Snow keened a shriek that told of his unraveling.

Tywin smiled inwardly at the easy victory then turned, addressing the bastard dismissively, "Breaking a broken man is hardly an accomplishment."

Tywin suddenly realized that the idiot grinning, smug as you please, actually believed his own words.

"Do you think your depravity is something special, bastard?" Tywin leaned forward with a tone that pierced the air, one that ensured a listeners undivided attention, "Had you ever heard of the Mountain that Rides?"

The ugly young man curled his lip, but nodded his agreement regardless.

"You are cruel, to be sure, but you have nothing that doesn't live in every man: the want to hurt. Even in the sport of torture there is always a purpose - a greater reason as to why."

Tywin tilted his head slightly, his features remained impassive.

"Ser Gregor, on the other hand, had no purpose whatsoever. He would enter a town looking for a drink and for no other reason than immediate want, kill his way into a family home, split a wife open, and fuck a babe still corded to its mother."

The lion inclined his head, looking bored, "_Then_ find his drink." Raising a brow a fraction, he emphasized his point, "Now _he_ was a masterpiece of depravity. _He_ was special."

The old lion gave a look of pity, "No, you're just a maiden in this _real _world of monsters."

He turned his query to the newly arrived commanding officer flanking the gate of the cell, "Clegane's men - what of the ones remaining?"

The older man answered readily, as though he had been waiting for just that question, "They're over a dozen in total - traveling on the skirt of the host, my lord." the man hesitated for only a heartbeat, "We can't have them amongst the rest of the men - they're not... compatible, my lord."

Tywin knew full well that any man assigned to Gregor Clegane was doomed to turn into an unmentionable threat; so care was always made to filter those predisposed to that sort of behaviour into the Mountain's camp. Now leaderless, the band of men were simply tolerated and used as a weapon of fear and torment.

"Fetch them."

The officer nodded, relieved there was no retribution for his gaoler's idiocy, and made to leave.

Lord Tywin then took a moment to contemplate the prisoner in front of him before turning to a young guard at his side.

"Find a frock amongst the Bolton belongings, something large - start with those of Lady Frey; something pink."

_How appropriate_.

Ramsey spat at Tywin as he spoke, "I'll wear a gown; you'll not humiliate me, old man."

Tywin cocked a brow but his tone remained dry and serious, "You misunderstand Snow, _gifts_ should always be wrapped."

At his words, and with a task, the guard set off to find the requested object.

The old lion leaned on the sturdy wooden slat of an adjacent stall; wiping his blade of carnage, waiting idly for his men to return, he soundly ignored the half-bred fuckwit trying to rouse his attention.

He smirked at the thought of Bolton's legacy, then grinned outright at the obvious end of it.

It was the young guard, quested like a handmaiden, who returned first - gown in hand.

Tywin flicked his gaze at Snow, "Remove your clothes."

It was an open invitation for rebellion, but it was exactly what he expected of the younger man.

"And if I refuse?" Snow _now _held the haughty timber of a proper high-born.

Lord Lannister moved not one fraction.

Inflected his voice not one fraction.

"The only reason you would be unable to oblige would be for lack of use of your arms."

Finished polishing his blade, Tywin rested the tip just inside the scabbard, set his foot on the slumped corpse of the bastard's dead pet, and spoke further, "Continue dallying, and you will be assisted in your ailment."

There was no fear in the bastard, but then true madness never allotted that kind of room. What it _did_ allow for was calculation; and as futile as it might be, letting the young man assume an advantage by changing his role and environment at least persuaded compliance...

A rank stench of filth assaulted the lion before he heard the footfalls of the men it belonged to. For a heartbeat he thought to blame the moat a curtain wall away, but theirs was a specific rot that identified Clegane's men without sight of them.

They filed into the kennel, closing in on their liege; waiting for the orders they lived for.

Tywin spoke toward the men as his fingers flicked to the angry man in a gaudy dress, he spoke quickly and concisely so as not to have to endure any more time with his own pets than he had to.

"She may not be comely, gentlemen, but she's yours for a fortnight."

No sooner had the gaoler swung open the gate then, without hesitation, the men climbed in with Ramsay. They inspected him like chattel: bending him over so fingers could jab cursory prods, pulling his lips back to devise how to best remove teeth.

The bastard tried to speak with them, but was struck for his efforts. Continually lashed with a blade until he learned to be silent.

There were no words of approval or thanks, or any kind of propriety to their lord for their gift. What there _was_ was a collective noise of salacious gibberish and wet groans from the group of men... and one skittish boy. A youth no older than four-and-ten, who looked just as deplorable as the rest of them.

Tywin's face could not help but twist mildly at the cringe of realization that the boy amongst them was more apt a child they snatched along the way. A child they used as nothing more than a camp follower - a rag for their degeneracy.

Yet in this scenario the boy seemed to have leverage, a higher status than the pink-frocked man being held down, and the men seemed happy to let him lead.

The youth looked wild at the bastard, like Snow was the prettiest wench this side of the Neck. But the boy's words were brutal, and with very little perception one was told the tale of his own horrible existence.

"O'r blades are sharp too, princess. We'll carve new holes to get int' ya - one's just as tight an' warm as another."

Tywin took the cue and addressed the motley assortment of miscreants as a whole, "I want him alive; broken if you must, but alive all the same. If he escapes or dies, each and every one of you will pay the toll."

A scab-infested man, the leader if Tywin were a betting man, was who grinned an answer on behalf of his brothers, "Yes, m'lord."

It was with dubious assurance that Lord Tywin left his men to their liberty.

The lion had greater considerations at hand...

...and she was getting closer.

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** A huge thank you to my beta, content developer, researcher, sounding-board, and internet life-partner: dealbreaker19 **


	3. Away pt I

***Note:** This chapter contains allusions of abuse. Please be aware of your own sensibilities and proceed accordingly.*

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The last time Tywin Lannister saw his wife was mere hours prior, while he was dreaming.

The last time Tywin Lannister saw his wife astride a horse was at Casterly Rock, while he had also been cursing-blue a stream of insults and walking away from both her and her mount.

She had wanted to learn to ride better she had said. Something she detested openly, but it was also something she saw as part of the strategy for her reintroduction to the North.

He had not the patience to teach her, though someone did, obviously, and it was to his greatest satisfaction that his wife now tended to ignore his more scathing criticisms - opting to conquer tasks on her own terms.

Lady Sansa was indomitable on her mount; a hand selected mare of the finest stock from the heir to Highgarden. The horse was a sleek dark amber colour and had an outwardly docile demeanour; but the beast could be feisty if commanded and as quick as any steed Tywin had ever seen.

He knew they were suited the moment he spotted the horse amongst the selections in the paddock.

His wife's assumption was well and correct; the sight of her riding through the wintertown at an easy pace was both a breathtaking and hopeful sight for those stopped and lining the road leading to the King's Gate.

She was evenly flanked on either side by her four fiercely protective sentries and closely followed by another hundred soldiers. Behind them were a veritable consortium of tradesfolk, crofters, and her own support. Each scattered amongst the envoy of food and supplies.

_Until you lead an army there, girl..._

The words rattled through Tywin's conscious until he resolved himself to the fact that he had best eat them, for that was exactly what she had done.

There were no red cloaks among Sansa's men, there was only the rich grey that once rested around her neck - that was once cradled at the top of her breasts...

Lady Sansa wore a cloak of that same grey, its edges thickly trimmed with the deepest of crimsons, but it was the back that caused gasps and mutters.

The northern men and women who came to see, and believe, their long lost Stark had returned, greeted Sansa with awe and murmurs of the Lady of Winterfell reborn. Of new eras and blessings of tree gods. Until the procession passed fully, it was only then that reality hit those waiting for a miracle.

On the back of Lady Sansa's cloak was an emblazoned lion, seemingly embroidered with threads of spun gold.

In the time that Lord Tywin had ousted Bolton, the North looked past the legendary lion from the south and focused solely on the promise of a Stark. When that woman arrived in grey and glory it was a hope yet again ignited.

But as happens with hopes and promises, and dreams and wishes, most do nothing more than remove vision and blind you to the truth.

They got their Stark - they also got a Lannister.

This would be the delicate balance, the test of faith for his wife from her people.

It was also the reason Lord Tywin was leaving as soon as she was established.

Sansa arriving without the heir to Winterfell was deliberately planned. They had fought viciously for more than a sennight over the prospect of leaving their sons in the West, but Tywin knew that with time his wife would see the necessity.

They were still young, just over a year old, the North was not yet solidified, and Tywin would not risk his wife's attention focused elsewhere than on the task at hand.

Though she was carefully concealing her hurt, it was reflected in her eyes for the lion to see. Equally _there_ was her determination and muster to claim this, her home, for her son.

There was no question of her ability to rule and delegate, she shadowed him for three moons at the Rock before he simply left her side after escorting her to the reception hall - much like he had done in the company of lords and emissaries in King's Landing.

He would be leaving Sansa here with good counsel; Lord Manderly obliged to stay until a token of order was established. He was a presence trusted by other northern lords and was devoted to his wife's family. The second man in her counsel she had selected herself, though he had supported her choice as though it were his own.

Ser Brynden Tully rode second in formation behind Sansa and was her only preference of advisor.

She had never met her great uncle prior, but when she brought her selection to her husband, her reasoning was flawless. The Blackfish was not only family, and renowned in his own right, he was also well established as a man successful in gaining and maintaining the respect of anyone.

His leadership turns at the Vale and Riverrun were nothing if not exceptional, and he had no ties now that his nephew had been reinstated as Lord.

Tully's devotion to his wife was immediate, and fascinating to say the least; the look of abject reverence the first time the Blackfish met Sansa was telling. What the older knight would not admit in words was as obvious from his every look and action: Sansa was Catelyn Tully incarnate.

She was a sort of redemption for the man, whose eyes were steeped in regret and guilt for what he escaped at the Twins.

It was nothing if not an advantage; and while Sansa would never think to hone that kind of leverage from her great uncle, it was done without so much as a second thought on Tywin's part.

He had told the Blackfish that Sansa's very life was in his hands, that he was entrusted with her care and safety, and that the knight would meet his own death if he failed the task of bringing her north unmarred.

"_Family. Duty. Honour._" Ser Brynden had said.

Normally Tywin would have dismissed any man who mustered the gall to sling house words like a bloody oath; mocked their insipid try for sentimentality with the disdain it deserved. But the Blackfish was no fool, nor was he some unseasoned boy fresh-weaned from the teat with nothing to him save the shine of his own conceit.

The lion, instead, devoured the pledge set at his feet; subsisted on it for each step of his journey; with every plot and stratagem he consumed that very vow, and let it sustain him.

Until Sansa was delivered safe to the North.

Only now could he be sated.

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The moment she saw the familiar silhouette on the skyline, a warmth enveloped her.

She had worried that the sight would seize her, hold hostage her alleviation and strike back with grief. But as they approached the wintertown, the bustle of trades and the working noise of industry snatched away any remnants of doubt.

Her face was a mask of propriety, but it did not diminish the jubilation she felt in the people, her people, that had come to line the road.

Tywin considered his wife's seriousness and stood straighter with a shock of pride.

_Good. This is hardly a game._

However there was a small part of him that wanted to see in her a sliver of joy, observe a taste of something good she may have remembered echo on her face.

She was Sansa, but it was like they had been separated by years not moons. She looked taller in the saddle, her face had a stoic quality, and it was with a sudden perverse pang he realized she looked so much a woman.

He wanted to fuck her, his northern bride. It was base and vulgar, but it was the truth of the matter.

Tywin was as struck as the others lining the road through the wintertown to the castle; this woman radiated. Her porcelain pallor that clashed so ridiculously with the norm of the South, almost glittered when it was set against the hazy grey of the northern climate.

She was a jewel here, and the old lion could not help but stagger slightly at exactly what that truth meant.

He observed her halt in the bailey just inside the King's Gate and swallowed back the want to push away the horsemen who were assisting her dismount, to draw his blade and sever the hands that thought to touch what was his.

_Jealousy_. Gods.

It was an intense fire in his belly that took everything in him to remain still, but the weight of it reflected on his face - making him look disappointed.

It was a fair trade.

Sansa walked to him with the elegant grace he feared he had forgotten, and though she took her time as decorum dictated at an even pace designated for regency, he could see her fight her own want to simply run.

And oh, how it pleased him.

It ate the burn of envy and replaced it with the cool wash of contentment. And though his face was stern, his wife knew exactly where to find the confirmation she was looking for.

She greeted her husband stiffly, as was expected, and watched as eyes drifted to her lips.

Focusing on how they moved, how she slid her tongue over the bottom one as she spoke his title and name, how that same lip was pulled back and scrapped under her teeth at the end of her greeting, found Tywin uncomfortably hard in his unforgiving armour.

He struggled to remember words and how to make his mouth work.

Abandoning speech, Tywin simply nodded and held out his arm. Sansa smiled demurely, a feature to which only he was privileged, and his free hand fisted to fight the reflex to find her face, her neck, her skin, in order to touch.

The tips of her fingers curled past the edge of his partial vambrace and pressed into the mail underneath. It was her indication to move; to walk and carry on with the business of themselves and Winterfell, and of the North.

It was also a promise of things to come, and a subtle message letting him know she felt the same way.

They walked, hand on arm, as a pair; striking in their refinement. As such it caused those around them to step away and look on in veneration.

Tywin ushered his wife into the great hall. And though she looked around in obvious pleasure, appreciating the work that had been done prior to her arrival, he could not stay. He had obligations elsewhere and an army to gather and coordinate.

"I will leave you in the capable hands of Lord Manderly, my lady."

"Of course, my lord," she did not even look at him as she spoke, and if he were honest - that's what he preferred.

She kept walking as he halted, and he could not help but simply watch her, before forcing his feet to pivot and his legs to stride away.

Lord Manderly was seated at one of the raised tables, parchments and quills strewn about - it was a makeshift desk, but absolutely appropriate for the amount of documentation it held.

He grinned at her as she approached, it was something knowing, and she tucked away how the man watched her and Tywin enter.

"My lady," he greeted, but made no effort to stand as was customary.

Sansa did not return Lord Manderly's levity, she remained detached, but approachable in her demeanour - she knew better than to grant immediate confidence in a man that willingly admitted duplicity. But he was also a man from her memories, from memories of her father, and it made it difficult to maintain the icy rift she needed to kept an open mind.

"The Bolton captives," Lord Manderly started, easily reading the young woman seated in the chair across from him; he dispensed with any idle banter he had initially planned. "Have you decided their judgment, my lady?"

Lady Sansa cast a critical eye on the large man, anatomizing what he was truly asking.

"I have, my lord," she offered flatly.

Manderly's smile crept wide on his face, it was usually a disarmament; but Sansa retained her steely will, immune to his practiced charm.

He kept the beam and allowed it to colour his words, "There are many men, myself included, that will gladly volunteer to the task of execution, on your behalf, Lady Sansa."

"That will be unnecessary, Lord Manderly."

_Frigid_. That's what he would call Lady Sansa's manner. _No_, he amended, he would call it _Southron_.

Ser Brynden interrupted whatever assessment was ticking in Lord Manderly, walking to his charge with an armful of parchments and sitting directly beside her. It was _he _who was overtly amiable, _he _who had offered a smile in return, just as easy and calculating as Manderly's own.

In that precise moment, Wyman knew exactly to whom he would have to prove himself in order to earn the trust of Eddard Stark's daughter.

The Blackfish littered the table top with his own documents and set to prioritizing. He handed the scroll pertaining to the captives off to Lady Sansa and watched, unsurprised, as she placed it to the side. He knew of her intent, he also knew this was not the time to discuss it.

The communication Sansa set aside may well have been scripted of stone for the gravity it held. She had hefted that onus the very moment it had laid on her palms.

Once they had landed in White Harbor, Sansa had received the register of Bolton captives. It was a long list of some fifty names; a thoroughly detailed report. And for all the husbands, wives, and youths - it was curiously lacking any children.

Even Lord Bolton's daughter was missing from the roster. A child she confidently knew to exist. A child she resolved to ward with Lord Manderly.

But as she stared at the diminished index, Sansa _knew _their fate. Just by looking at a scroll of parchment her heart sunk, forged of iron; excruciating and cumbersome in her chest. She _knew _what Tywin had done, and it made her physically ill for the greater part of her stay at the port keep.

But that was who Tywin Lannister was, had always been, and she had become too contented with the man he became in her presence. She never thought to change him, what an absurd notion considering her circumstance. Even under favourable odds it would be no more than a futile effort.

However, it had been a time since she had been cut open by the double edge of truth, and it made the impact of such a deed much more brutal.

She was welcomed to the North and to White Harbor with the flourish reserved for royalty. There was not a face amongst the men and women, commons and lords alike, that did not beam. That did not wordlessly express relief and joy.

She wanted to provide that succor for the people so ravaged by loss and war and winter. She had waited for the moment when she could begin to mend their lives on behalf of their fallen king... of their fallen lord. But she could not reconcile her desire to mend with the fact her husband had already torn out a bloody swatch - starting with children.

Sansa herself was a now a mother, and this savagery struck her far stronger than she expected. It was in the quiet ticks of time, the ones away from those she assured her promises to, that the heft bent the steel she had been made of for quite some time.

It was her great uncle that saw her distress, intuitively knew she needed calm and acumen.

So when he sat with her on a bench overlooking the rough northern waves, not speaking a word, just being of comfort, Sansa had no recourse other than handing him the parchment in her fingers and asking her dismal question.

"What do you think happened to them?"

Her tone was leveled. It would have been one that surprised Ser Brynden if he had not spent the past handful of moons with her at Casterly Rock. Watching this young woman rule with a strength and finesse he had not seen in anyone so young - not even her mother when she became de facto Lady of Riverrun.

"I suspect they're in the ground," he said, his eyes soft and sincere.

She had been adamant that Ser Brynden remain honest with her, like her husband, but the difference was overwhelming.

Where Tywin spoke of truths like they were blunt objects, battering with information to provoke comprehension, the Blackfish gave those same truths like a drink of water. It flowed, even and sedate, and seeped to understanding without a hint of violence.

But the worry was still evident, a crease in his niece's brow that had no natural right to be there. Brynden offered more honesty, this time of a harsher kind; the kind meant to carry the heavier types of guilt.

"Do you think your husband is the only man to kill babes, my lady?" Such ugly words were spoken so gently, "Do you think your father hadn't killed children during the rebellion, then again at Pyke? Your brother in his march south? Me wherever my sword is needed?" He scuffed closer to her, his warmth enough to prompt Sansa to lean against him. "It's easy to read judgment on a ledger, my lady, but the reason of matters are never so clearly inked."

"I didn't want this."

"Did you want the North, my lady? Winterfell?"

There was nothing more than genuine inquiry in him. And as he regarded her with such a familiar warmth, Sansa could not stop the squeeze in her chest and the watery blur of her vision.

"Yes," she breathed.

"And that's more the reason Lord Tywin removed the option of choice. Your man settles matters in sharp lines - there's no slope to leave room for regret. No opportunity for retribution against your son once he takes his seat."

Her great uncle leaned into her a little more, and for a moment Sansa thought the amenity was a threat, but those thoughts were just as quickly stomped away by a riot of caring acceptance.

She relaxed on the man who had become so much to her in such a small amount of time. With her great uncle, Sansa was allowed to become the girl before she was before she matured too abruptly; that small part of her, who she was, that lived in the background was encouraged and embraced by this man, and she gave it to him without hesitation.

"It only takes one, Sansa. One babe with a chance to live - to grow up with a grudge - and your own children could be at the wrong end of a blade."

Looking out once more at the vast and turbulent waters, she felt better. There at the edge of the sea she was not Eddard Stark's only living heir, nor was she Tywin Lannister's wife; there in the presence of an infinite power, Sansa Lannister was but a tiny existence.

She nodded to her advisor, she understood.

Ser Brynden's words impacted as they were meant: she refused repentance of anything that pertained to her children. Sansa missed her sons as though a part of her soul was left at Casterly Rock, but she would never allow her selfishness to endanger them...

It was with a shudder Sansa could blame on the cold that rightful acknowledgement came knocking; _she_ was that one babe allowed to live. The actuality of her world proved grudge was just another word for debt, and she had been given means to pay regardless of what it was called.

And _that _recognition was not as bitter as it should have been.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Tywin found her standing in the charred solar that once belonged to her father. The room still held the faint smell of smoke, but had been cleaned considerably and housed an adequate desk for their purpose.

She was at an angle, arms tucked around her middle, looking out the large pane of heat-warped glass; her eyes were distant, but her focus went no further than the grounds just without.

She did not hear him enter through the newly installed doors, but when she scoffed and chuckled in an airy tone he addressed her.

"Something amusing?" Hers was the only laughter he would tolerate, enjoy even.

Sansa kept her gaze toward the outside as she spoke, "I've had the North won for me, my lord."

She was about to include the humour she found in the shallow reveries she had as a small girl, of knights and princes winning kingdoms and castles for her when Tywin interjected on her thoughts.

"My queen."

His tone was severe and Sansa, expecting him to have a scowl that was mocking her, wore a defensive look as she turned at the waist to look back at him.

There was nothing of the sort. No scowl, no look in his eyes telling her she was stolid.

She softened her own features, curved her lips, and blinked slowly at him, "My king."

Tywin cocked an eyebrow at his wife and huffed lightly, "Now we're both bloody fools."

Sansa grinned broader at her husband and held her hand out to him.

Ever cautious, Tywin hesitated momentarily before accepting her affection; sliding his fingers over hers, curling them around her hand in a practiced embrace. He allowed her to pull him to a position behind her.

She settled back only slightly, his armour preventing her from being completely comfortable. Once stilled, she felt him pivot his hand in hers until their fingers twined.

The view through the window was terrible. From the misted smoke-stained glass, to the evidence of carnage and brutality in the yard beyond; but Tywin knew well the look his wife wore was one of contemplation. And if he were to guess, she was viewing the scene as something she remembered from her childhood, something soothing and pleasant.

He rested his lips on the top her head and soaked in her contentment; it was an air of peace he was sure he could feel through the hardened steel of his breast plate.

The lion found himself soothed as well.

There was a soft knock on the servants' passage and at the same time Tywin's squire entered, his wife stepped away from their intimacy.

The boy was there to remove his armour for prep and polish and in waving the nervous boy to him with a twirl of his fingers, Tywin watched Sansa seemingly glide to the small table holding wine and begin to pour for them both.

Without looking toward her husband, Sansa spoke clear and kind, "Thank you for delivering my letter, Darin."

Focused on the steel he was gently disassembling from his liege, the squire's eyes went impossibly wide, and he made a small squeaky sound before actual words formed from of his mouth.

"You're welcome, my lady," he said with a gush of air.

When the boy's gaze drifted to that of his lord, he physically startled at the man. Lord Tywin was glaring at him in a way made Darin suddenly need to make water; the lion's jaw was clenched and grinding, his head was tilted slightly.

With another squeak and a fit of inspired speed and dexterity, Darin had the armour set away, his lord washed, freshly laundered clothes set out, and waited to determine if his assistance was needed to dress.

All while Lord Tywin looked fit to murder... _him_.

By the time he was dismissed, Darin had sweated through his tunic and all but ran away in terror.

"You shouldn't tease him," Tywin half heartedly growled at his wife, as he sat in his chair and watched her set two goblets of wine on the dense wood of the desktop.

"Beg pardon?" She questioned dryly, one brow raised.

"The boy," he grinned, no longer able to keep his serious ruse, "you exploit him with your charm."

"I do no such thing, my lord," she chortled lightheartedly, grinning sly in her own right, "not to Darin, at least."

With another growl, he pulled his wife to him; her knees could not conform to the direction he was tugging her and the chair that was trying to bend them queerly. She collapsed onto his torso with a rather undignified grunt.

Reaching his arm around her arse, he pulled once more to cradle Sansa on his lap.

It was daylight, in the midst of rule and repair, hardly appropriate for these types of actions, but Tywin could not care less. Theirs was an unhurried stillness, something built of longing and contemplation.

Something that defied time altogether.

He swept his fingers over her smiling lips, blinked a languid gaze directly at her, and murmured his aching confession.

"Beautiful."

His wife's lips widened behind his fingers, speaking around them.

"_Beautiful_."

Lord Tywin narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing for any trace of foolishness.

Of course there was nothing.

She kissed his fingertips instead, tethering him back from distraction, and was rewarded with a gentle smile from the old lion.

Sansa reached her own delicate hand to the side of his face and set her fingers to wriggle into the shaggy hair on his cheeks, at the same time offering soft words.

"I thought men didn't like being called beautiful."

Lord Tywin brushed his fingers from her lips, over her cheek, dusting past her eyelashes, to caress the thick waves of auburn that tumbled over the arm he was using to support her before gently leaning his mouth onto hers; he purred directly into the silky, pink pout.

"My masculinity is _quite_ secure."

She curled her hand around the back of his head and made the connection. Their kiss was not heated, but quenching and leisurely.

A shuffling noise of movement outside the doors had Sansa smiling at him, silently imploring him to set her upright.

Before she took her seat beside him behind the desk though, Sansa again stroked his side whiskers and pressed a peck of a kiss on the top of his head. Tywin smirked at her behaviour, knowing it was the kind of affection she would employ with their sons.

Sitting together with wine and the task of rule was a blanket of familiarity. They not only had the West and the North, but Kevan had sent forward the more pressing matters of the crown - the ones he knew his brother would want to peruse.

When he sighed loudly at a particularly tedious exchange between the bartering of livestock and parcels of land, his wife chuckled softly - goading him knowingly.

"Lions do not concern themselves with the opinions of sheep," he grouched - for her benefit.

"They should," she murmured in reply, keeping her eyes on the parchment in her hand.

Tywin looked at his wife with a dour edge that immediately lightened; she had a purpose for her words and he wanted to know it. Her eyes flicked a glittering hold on him and he waited for his lady to show him what conclusions she had surmised.

"Dismissal breeds fear," she told him in her thoughtful way, "If sheep live in fear they will either die or move on to safer lands - and what does that leave, but a starving lion."

There was a look in his eyes that was so warm, still so foreign, that she could see it visibly waver. She felt confident it was a cut of happiness.

"And how long have you been waiting to say _that_, my lady?" it was almost a pleasantry.

She was the one to smirk, "Oh, many moons, my lord."

She smiled at him; the one that was his alone. He did not reciprocate, but the look remained, and that was enough for her.

They fell into a comfortable silence, the one they both did not know they craved until it was missing. Reading and prioritizing, they were readying for their eventual reversal. Tywin returning south, and Sansa remaining...

He hated to think of it. He refused. It would only serve to jostle his ire and the old lion wanted only the companionable quiet.

Reading the contents of the next missive, Tywin thought of his wife - precisely, he thought of how she adapted in the West. How she claimed the seat of Casterly Rock like it had been meant for her in its conception.

She had shadowed him in his daily routine, sat with him on counsel, and observed him in the great hall addressing petitioners. And the moment he stood back, Tywin could see very well his own influence in the way she held herself, her father in the manner she ruled the crofters and lords who stood before her, but he could also see her mother in the way in which she defined herself as scrupulous.

She had the maester train more men specifically for dictation, _specifically_ to record the details of each and every protestation brought before her. And though she would not disclose her inspiration for such steps, he knew they were the lingering sway of Tyrion - as his were the best kept notations for drainage in the Rock's lengthy history.

But Tywin would not begrudge her those nuances. He allowed her the freedom to rule as she found favourable, as long as it was befitting him and the Lannister name, and by all accounts her methods were.

She was fair and firm in her negotiations of land disputes and incoming mercantile trades, unafraid to heed advice from those he trusted to sit with her; and she was equally fair and firm in her adherence to laws and morality.

While Tywin would never place his wife in the bracket of cut-throat, she was not ignorant to the process of punishment - in all its forms. The first time she sentenced a man to die, for the crime of theft against his liege, he watched her internally deliberate the value of the Lannister horse the man stole against the life he was willing to spend for it.

He had stood in the shadows at the far edge of the dais, cloaked, unrecognized, and just beyond Sansa's peripheral. He did not want to be looked upon for direction from her, or confirmation from any of those standing in the hall.

Regardless of her judgment, Tywin would never hold word against her in public. A division between them was nothing if not weakness and he would not provide that particular satisfaction to anyone.

Though her hesitation _had _become worrisome; but as his wife also had a penchant for dramatics, he found he could not fault her in this scenario. When she delivered her sentence there was no falter or caution, no blink or look to her counsel for support; there was simply considerations of established law and the consequence for the man's disregard of them.

She handed the man his death like she was inviting him into her confidence; with an elegant sadness without a fraction of regret. There would be no flogging prior or parade to the gallows; he would be removed from the hall, given a meal if that was his preference, then put to the sword.

_A quick northern death_ he heard tittered around him, then those same men joked if she would be the one to swing the steel.

They were all rendered silent when the condemned thief spoke loud and clear, wanting the attention of the court.

He thanked his lady.

The man thanked the woman who had ended his life, uttering such gratitude one would think she had offered him gold instead.

Sansa had simply nodded modestly in acknowledgement - a reaffirmation of her graceful power.

On that account alone, Tywin found no grounds to doubt his wife's ability to judge; therefore, when he read the missive from Lord Crydene, he was agitated that her more delicate sensibilities had crept up in his absence.

And he would not be made a fool of.

Handing the missive over, Tywin watched as Sansa leaned back in her chair and rested the fingers not holding parchment on the base of her wine goblet. They made subconscious rudimentary shapes as she read; it was when the tips of her fingers traced the complicated embellishments and her eyes remained focused on the page that he recognized she was formulating her debate.

Sansa knew her husband assumed the worst of her; that she bowed to the sensitive nature of _the weaker sex_. But she also knew that Tywin had taught her to see through those very people who sought a tender target in her, hoping to exploit the gentleness of a woman.

She had been educated by a man who would accept nothing less than unbiased concern in her regard for anyone outside their tight knit circle. More than that he had taught her _why_ it was important.

_Why_ unchecked compassion amongst strangers is a death sentence; _why_ her sons were surrounded by thousands bound to protect them, but only a handful that were truly earning of her trust.

So when she read the parchment handed to her, she knew her actions were sound; that her instinct and decrees were just.

Tywin did not speak but Sansa understood what he was asking; she promptly relayed the incident of the servant girl who presented herself and her babe in the halls of Casterly Rock. Who told a story of her lord forcing himself on her repeatedly. Of how that same lord beat her because she was too pregnant to work, and two days after his child was born, beat her again for crying while he took her.

"These people should have never laid footfall at the Rock," Tywin chastised.

"No, but her wish was to leave his service, and her lord violently refused-"

"As is his right."

"-and some of those instances were witnessed by others. It was _their_ lobby that landed the incident at our feet. Not the plot of a kitchen maid."

"And?"

"_And_ the son looks nothing like the mother, yet the boy is Lord Crydene in everything but name."

"What was your decision?"

"I gave the boy a name."

"You legitimized his bastard?"

"I did," she said matter of fact.

"Lord Crydene is an upstart, no more than two generations deep. He has no intentions of marrying and has no heirs, my lord." Sansa took a sip of wine and continued with every confidence, "Instead of the cost of a keep and its lands left empty and not producing, I simply ensured future revenue as their liege. As is my duty."

Tywin looked at his wife and dissected her every movement and word, subtle and otherwise.

"I will have him wed the girl," he clipped, "At least the child will have their marriage to prove succession, not just a name."

The lion waited.

Sansa assumed a posture and a look that dropped what warmth there was in the room to frigid.

"He _raped_ her, my lord," she spoke carefully, her gaze not once faltering.

It was the weakness he suspected, was hoping against. Yet even so, the woman in front of him was nowhere near feeble, her words were anything but flippant.

Tywin flicked his hand absently, purposefully, shrugging as he spoke, "And now he will bear the burden of consequence."

"And now _she _will be the prize her lord bestowed on the man who tortured her." There was nothing timid in her as she backhandedly scolded his being obtuse.

Her husband would have none of it.

"Her feelings are not my concern," his words were as cool as hers, "As you say, my lady, it is but my duty to maintain the integrity of the West, for _all _its lords."

His wife would have none of it.

"There is no integrity in allowing a man to rape under the guise of rights and law. It's a mockery."

There was a sudden stillness to the room, and Sansa did not dare move.

Though there was hope.

She could see he was listening; there was a glimmer in his eyes, but she knew any pleading toward the sensibilities of women would meet deaf ears.

Sansa opted for what had always appeased her husband's personal sense of righteousness: gains. Cold profit and emotionless advantages.

"I have sent the girl and her son to Crakehall," the fact that her statement was truth added to the finality of her claim, "The girl has been hired to the kitchens and the boy will be warded. He will receive the education he needs with men who will teach him to serve you loyally."

Tywin's serious countenance did not waver; bodily, he was unmoving. The only physical indication of consideration that Sansa could see was the subtle waves in his side whiskers as his jaw flexed.

"The girl will stay at Crakehall," his voice was rigid, "When the boy is of age, he will ward at the Rock." Tywin tilted his head and looked amidst bothered and angry. "What better way to breed loyalty, no?"

It had been a little more than a handful of moons, but Sansa knew compromise in her husband when she saw it. It was something begrudged, something hated to the man, yet it was something he forced of himself on occasion - for her.

If only for its reward.

When his wife smiled her approval, acknowledgement that he had pleased her in some way, it always seemed to shift the world around him. It brushed back whatever nuisance lay outside the two of them, if only for a little while, and lightened him significantly.

It made him happy.

The puzzle of happiness was always well within reach and highly attainable - it only required him to momentarily see with better eyes in order to find it waiting, beseeching him to solve it and claim his bounty.

Thoughts of contentment and Casterly Rock brought with them contemplation of his sons.

"How fare _our_ children?" he asked through a whisper, the words uncomfortable in his own mouth.

The pooling in her eyes caught him off guard. Though nothing fell, it was a wave of emotion he had to deliberate. The question had been a simple one, he would have thought, and her overreaction was enough to prod his ire.

"What is it Sansa?" he kept his tone in check, just.

She looked at her husband squarely; her baleful eyes obviously shoving him outside his comfort zone. She could see him fighting between empathy and anger.

"My younger brothers..." she cleared her throat; once, then twice, "Rickon wasn't much older than Tysan and Rykar when my mother left him and Bran..." She looked to her hands in her lap, swallowing hard, blinking back everything that was threatening to spill forth.

Tywin felt his face pinch in a subconscious wince.

He knew the story well, he was part of it. Forced into action - pulled into war by the knee-jerk vindication of a woman claiming justice for _her_ child by abducting the imp.

Consequence begetting consequence, begetting consequence...

"...They never saw each other again," she finished, pushing the words out as fast as she could.

Tywin watched his lady with keen intent. He did not know if this was the beginning of the end, if this was how she was telling him of her decision.

When Sansa lifted her eyes to him, it was all he could do not to flinch, but her words were not the ones he expected.

"I want you to spend time with them."

He husband stared, she clarified, "Your sons, Tywin, I want you to spend time with them when you get back."

"You are not my mother, you'll not dictate to me." The words were such a practiced defense Tywin hardly knew he had said them.

"No, my lord, I am _their_ mother and I am asking their father to spend time with them."

"If I can, I will," he sighed, scrubbing his face with his hand.

"Thank you, my lord."

Sansa thoughtfully considered her surroundings and added gently, "Sons should always know the love of their father."

"That's a fool's concept," he snapped thoughtlessly.

They sat looking at each other, the tense atmosphere lasting only a heartbeat as something considerable stole behind his eyes. If it was an apology it would remain unaired, she knew. But Sansa also knew that this was _her_ compromise: to acknowledge her husband was capable of remorse in small doses, without demanding verbal confirmation.

Her tone was engaging, "It is a fool's _word_, my lord, however the concept is rather sound."

Tywin broke eye contact then, again something flashing over his countenance; this time it was something darker, sadder.

He nodded absently and directed his attention to the missives in front of him, their conversation at an end.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

The evening was formal, a feast for the return of the Stark lineage within the halls of Winterfell. However the extravagance of it was foreign yet quite welcome, if Tywin were to judge, to those in attendance.

She looked at ease, his wife. She held herself as though she had never left, and those men who eyed her warily that morning now regarded her approachable demeanour as something familiar, something they had once lost and now found. And though none save a few made the effort to talk to her, Tywin could easily see the men before her wanted to - as was the goal - _he_ simply had to step away and let it happen.

The seat of the North was a tactical necessity if he was to hold any kind of geographical domination; he would play their game willingly. He did so without so much as a pause - he knew very well who held singular influence over the woman these men so coveted.

Glancing to his side, that same woman was staring at him with a fiery intensity that surged straight to his cock. He had felt a wave of desire the moment he saw her in the bailey, but was able to suppress his primal need.

This however... _This _was a force that swept him up, shook him with lewd abandon.

Her eyes were hazy as she looked right at him, a pink flush was clawing its way up her neck.

Sansa turned her head sharply and it was like their connection was made of glass, cracked and shattered as she twisted away. She was speaking in hushed tone to the Blackfish, and just as quickly looked back to him. Her eyes no longer pulled at him, they reflected her natural kindness, and she jutted her chin slightly as a silent request for him to lower his ear to her.

He obliged.

"I will expect you in my chambers tonight, not amongst your host, my lord."

The corner of Tywin's mouth twitched like he had been hurt._ Very nearly, to be sure_. His blood felt of molten lead, a sinking heat pooling in the place his wife was begging for with her hitched breathing and fingernails curling into his forearm.

He could only nod, the fucking beast that he was, every word he thought to speak turned to smoke before he had a chance to utter them.

Sansa's mouth was still by his ear, he could feel it curve at the corners; and it required every thread of discipline he possessed - tattered as it was because of her - to stop him from hoisting her over his shoulder, like a savage himself, retiring to the first darkened nook and making quick work of burying himself inside her.

In one fluid motion, she stood - Tywin followed her lead, ears buzzing, body numb from trying to fight his cock from becoming an embarrassment.

Winning the battle to stay upright, the lion gathered control of his senses in time to hear his wife speak.

"Please, my lords, I implore you to relax and enjoy the hospitality that has been absent in Winterfell for far too long."

She slipped her hand into his, it was fidgety, and he could only imagine what other parts he could touch that were twitching.

"I am wary from my journey," Sansa continued, "but rest assured, this is the first of many celebrations."

Tywin stood tall, his face a serious mask, and listened as in nearly one voice the northern men and women thanked their lady first - and her lord husband second.

It was a slight, to be sure, but the old lion was too distracted to be baited, too distracted by the salacious images his mind was conjuring of his wife to remotely care.

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When he walked into the suite of rooms he had selected for his lady, she was standing close to the hearth. The proximity to the bright blaze of the fire rendered her bedgown translucent - and his throat immediately dry.

He could see every curve that haunted him, and it sent a sudden tremor of nervousness down his spine. It was a ridiculous notion, to be restive in her presence, but it was something he could not shake.

Even so, Tywin felt himself drawn to her as though compelled - he was the moth to her flame.

Sansa did not move, nor even turn to him as he approached; but when he closed the distance between them, she felt his heat take precedence over the hearth-fire, her body sought its own comfort and she leaned back into a welcoming embrace.

There was no mail or plate between them, nothing cold or inhibiting.

Tywin had been dressed in a light tunic and breeches and boots; his standard attire, save the boots, for sleeping amidst the unrest of battle. And though the North had been relatively secured, his habitual nature would not be quelled.

She made to move, taking hold of his hand and offering a coy whisper, "Follow me."

Tywin scoffed at her; though half hard for his wife, he would always resist an attempt to subjugate him.

Stopping at his huffed ridicule, Sansa turned back toward Tywin, stood on her toes and kissed the man hard on the mouth. In an instant, the old lion had one hand in full possession of her arse and the other meandering through her hair - cupping the back of her skull. She was bent back allowing him to curl over her body and stake his claim on her lips.

When Tywin pulled his wife to stand upright once more, Sansa's fingers were dancing magic through his whiskers and over his scalp.

She created a gap and enticed him.

"_Follow me_."

This time her voice was built in a low-pitch grit of lust; the same tone that could burn him from the inside out; that seared his skin without leaving a wound.

His northern bride scorched him like the bite of frost.

He followed.

Once in the privacy of her small bedchamber, Tywin made a possessive grab for his wife; pulling her back to his chest; her head reclining, he buried his mouth and nose in her hair - his tongue and teeth working against her soft skin of her neck.

His hands roamed, needy for her; long fingers found her cleft through the fabric of her bedgown, and he growled at the spread of moisture wicking under their tips. His other hand found laces, then the soft mounds of flesh those laces here hiding.

_It has been too long_, his mind reasoned. His body would have to map hers again - the chore that it was.

Hooking his fingers into the fabric of her loosened collar, he peeled the garment down and away; exposing her to the waist. Every breath he took behind Sansa, pushed her breasts out into his waiting palms, and bowed her, neck and all, like a sacrifice to the gods.

Sansa turned in his arms, eyes heavily lidded, her breath ragged on the intake, and wriggled against the arousal straining in her direction.

She stood on her toes and kissed him again, her hands working in tandem to untuck his tunic and tug loose the leather straps holding him back from her.

Removing his tunic fully, his loosened breeches sagging low in turn, the lion gauged his wife's reaction.

Along his torso, Tywin was painted with new marks and scars. Linear scrapes and bruises from his shoulder to the pits of his arms, where his breastplate sits and presses. He was sporting a large black bruise just above his hip, from sparring. But it was the angry red seam that bisected the skin over ribs, vertically along his flank, that would be her test.

The old lion did not quite know what he was expecting, all he knew was that he would not tolerate fawning, even from Sansa.

She did not so much as coo or tsk his injuries, as some wives were prone to do. Instead Sansa stepped toward him, so close to him that she stole his heat and gave him her own.

It was a distraction most cunning until she pressed the ghost of her lips first to the marks by his shoulders, then to the edge of the deep bruise at his hip.

When her attentions turned to the angry red ridge - proof that mail will stop a slashing blade but barely slow down a honed tip of steel - it was her fingers that found it first. Her subtle touch coaxed a yearning sigh from him, and when her mouth laid soft open kisses there too, his mind screamed out its want of her flesh.

His breath punched out of him. This, _this _was what he dreamt of, what lingered inside him when he woke up sweating and frustrated.

Her eyelashes tickled his skin; her palm teased the insistent ache of his cock.

Tywin walked with her held close, danced their languid steps to the edge of the bed, and divested them of their clothes completely.

But it was Sansa who splayed her hand on his chest and pushed him down in the most delightful form of coercion.

She climbed over and knelt between his legs, taking in the sight of her husband laid out and at her command; her body thrummed its own opinion. Her fingers pushed lazily around his thighs, through the coarser hair; the pad of her thumb roamed over a red bump.

For all the dents and brands of battle that his body had earned, fresh and old, it was a small blemish that reiterated his existence as mortal.

She basked tenderly at her lord.

Leaning low to him, Sansa rested the flat of her tongue at the base of Tywin's cock and grinned at the sound of a long exhaled groan from the direction of the pillows. She flicked the tip of her tongue over the ridges and loose skin of his sac, anticipating his reaction.

Her husband did not disappoint. He scrambled to lean on his elbows, to elevate his view and take in what his wife was doing to him.

Tywin could not find the voice to say the words that would tell her to stop; his mind started revolting from pleasure, focusing on the whore on her knees in his tent. But all he could do in the physical world was breathe heavily and moan every time her tongue laved his prick or balls.

His mind utterly fucking left him the moment she rested her arms across his pelvis and lifted his leaking cock to her mouth; the height on his elbows suddenly made him dizzy, causing him to drop back to the bed. It was her name that formed itself in the sound of his voice, but he was not sure if it was him that truly spoke, the only thing he could focus on was Sansa's hot mouth swallowing him.

His hands made to venture toward her hair, but rather stopped their trek to rest safely on the linens at his side. He knew he would not be disappointed this time, but he could not bring himself to seek that kind of comfort.

Breathing in deep lungfuls, Tywin concentrated on her. On her mouth working lower, on her tongue petting and working its own magic on the underside of his cock, on the gentle squeeze she applied to his balls, on the familiar stop as she took him in as far as her mouth would allow.

Sansa made little movements, bobbing in tiny increments; and with a look of hunger her husband could not see she adjusted her jaw as though to yawn, closed her eyes, and slowly took his length completely; stopping only when her nose nuzzled into the sparse thatch of golden curls at the base of his cock.

She could hear Tywin's fingers grip the bed linen to the point of tearing as she felt his body arch at her efforts; above everything Sansa heard the gasping cry of a man enjoying a new pleasure.

Feeling the need to swallow, her throat made the motion, constricting in ripples around Tywin's girth. She was pleased when his legs spread wider and his hips flexed upward, exploring this new found ecstasy.

It was short lived; the need to breathe made itself known.

As Sansa pulled away, she sucked and lapped and teased with the barest of teeth, watching while his eyes came into view.

Her docile gaze met his look - one that was caught between amazement and disbelief.

"I found your book," she muttered shyly. Speaking into the silky skin at the tip of his cock; pausing only a heartbeat before wrapping her lips around him again.

"I don't remember th-" everything turned into a groan as she swallowed him to the root once more, nothing mattered but the pull of her throat.

Releasing him again to find air, Sansa gazed transfixed at the horizon of Tywin's torso - every muscle twitching, his chest labouring for air.

"There were no illustrations for... _this_," she hummed at the delirious man, "only written instructions."

"There were words?" he mumbled airily to a point on the ceiling, his smile clearly on display.

When she sat up fully, it was the overall sight of Tywin that caused her to tingle in desire; his head had fallen back and he was sporting a deep flush from the base of his neck to the top of his scalp. She certainly earned the edge of smug satisfaction she wore - more so when he looked at her with thoroughly bleary eyes.

Moving one knee outside his legs, Tywin took the hint to close them, giving her room. She was so wrapped up in concentration, Sansa did not notice the one hand, then two, that sought and found her breasts.

His thumbs had just begun to tease her nipples, pebbling them under his touch, when he felt her sit.

Sansa had straddled his hips and lowered her heat over his sensitive cock laid flat against his belly; and with the first sway of her hips she slid, hot and wet, up the length of him then down again.

At the sweet pressure of her cunt stroking him, all the air in his lungs was forced out once more; and with it, words.

"I _need _to fuck you, Sansa" he rasped his plea, his hands now enclosed on her hips, "I _need _to be inside your body."

Her mute affirmation came by way of rising on her knees, guiding his cock to her entrance, anchoring her hands on his forearms, and filling herself in one long, slow downward settle.

Sansa's mouth opened; her soft cry a heady song.

Tywin hissed a quiet moan that was broken by muttered profanity as he watched her descent.

The casual grasp he held on her hips strengthened as he absorbed the give of tight flesh. The sight of her slacked lips forming delicately mewled vowels and hazy eyes that never moved from his hit him with a raw sense of excitement.

The hairs on his arms stood up.

She was lightning in the room, dangerous and exquisite at the same time.

He had to savour it all.

After the first lift and fall Sansa was already constricting deep in her belly. After the tenth and eleventh time his cock teased then filled her, she dug her nails in Tywin's skin and ground out her release on his pubic bone.

He encouraged her to fall forward on his body, as her hips made greedy little movements to ride out her pleasure.

Clasping both hands in her hair, angling them to see her beautiful face, Tywin raised his knees and anchored his feet, then proceeded to lift his hips and thrust into her deeply.

The look she wore every time his cock pushed into her was both a wish and a curse; her eyes were barely open, her bottom lip was trapped in her teeth, and everything about her sent a hot wave of lust from the middle of his chest to the point where they connected.

Wrapping his arms around her, Tywin rolled them until she was comfortable underneath his weight. Her legs draped over his hips and he felt her hands mark their own territory along his body.

He watched her as his cock pushed its way into her and stilled once he became fully seated.

In those moments he saw his own vulnerability, not its entirety, simply a phantom suggestion of what he was bound to lose. And in a sickening wash, his mind registered that current needs and wants were insufficient; with it he felt his desire manifest into possession in its purest form.

Tywin's eyes looked _through_ his wife as his entire demeanor changed above her.

Everything in his vicious jolts of movement, in his whimpering huffs, spoke of a desperate need - of a furious compulsion. It was as though she was going to disappear once their encounter ended.

Tywin felt so full of helplessness he shuddered, causing the pleasure in his body to twist into an anguish that beset his mind.

Every moment with her, in her, was a moment already gone. And his newest fracture compelled him to consume every morsel of her, have contact with every living piece of her, before there was no time left.

Before _he_ left.

He was losing control.

Sansa placed a firm palm to each side of his face, forcing him to look, willing him to read her eyes; but when his own eyes switched and pulled at a pace she could not read, Sansa resorted to words.

"Slow..." she breathed, her body rocking in higher arcs to show him what she wanted. "Gently."

Her husband blinked out of his abysmal daze, whimpering a desolate moan and sliding to a skittish understanding; short punishing thrusts became long teasing strokes, a digging grip into her flesh became the tender exploration she was used to from his fingertips.

She still had his face in her restrain, his features softening from the sharp chaos they once were.

Tywin rolled his hips and it was all she could do to keep his eye as she moaned out her pleasure directly at him. She spoke a primal language, one that had nothing to do with vernacular and everything to do with instinct.

He dipped his mouth to his lady and kissed. Softly at first, tasting her lips and her tongue, then he sucked a little harder and nipped with a little more pressure as her heels gathered just over his arse, commanding his rhythm to that of her whim.

The familiar tightening of release was building - burning in his belly, wringing its way to his groin.

A preemptive wave of pleasure fluttered through her lion; Sansa felt his cock harden further, nudging the place within her that he sometimes sought exclusively. She gasped and pulled inward with her heels.

He was at the very edge of his peak when, using one hand, he loosed one of her legs from his waist; splaying her open.

At the same moment his lungs forgot to work, his heart sped, and he felt himself contract at his core, Tywin pulled away from the clutched heat of his wife.

His free hand gripped and stroked the slick length of his cock as he spilled his seed on the skin of her belly; groaning her name with every pull.

Sansa felt empty the instant Tywin removed himself from her. She felt incomplete and could not decide if it was emotional irrationality, or if it was something physically genuine.

Whatever it was, the bereft feeling swayed first to annoyance than to concern.

"You've... never done that before," she panted.

Tywin had his eyes closed; his ducked head rested between her breasts as he took deep tugs of air through his nose getting his breathing in order, but mostly just wanting to enjoy her scent, _their scent_.

He had heard her, he did not _want _to ignore her, but the alternative was to address what he was feeling - and that was nothing he was prepared to do.

"It's a night of firsts then," he whispered into her sternum, hoping the levity would sate her.

It did not.

"Tywin, why-"

Fury and impatience, are a comfortable set of clothing for a man of his nature; such an easy robe to slip into when one wishes to avoid truths and hurts.

The Great Lion snapped his head up, eyes glittering his ire. His teeth were bared as he swung forward bodily, his softened cock dragged up her belly, through his spend, with the motion. His face was so close, Sansa could feel the heat of his anger as it flushed his cheeks.

"I have done a great many ill deeds, Lady _Stark_," he spit the name and title in her face, "but I will _not_ leave you in this land of savages _compromised_!"

He was furious and she had no idea why.

Sansa tightened her fingers at his nape, the compassion on her face a clear and silent question of his well being, and it only angered him further.

Tywin forcibly wrenched himself away from her, out of her grip, out of the warmth of her thighs, out of bed altogether.

He yanked on his breeches and hastily shoved his boots into place on his feet. When he bent again, he picked up his tunic and it was only then he chanced to look at his wife.

Her leg was bent, knee raised slightly, taking her quim just out of view. One of her hands rested lazy between her breasts, where his mouth had just done the same. Her other hand was stretched out across the bed to him - a summons, a seduction of skin.

He clenched his back teeth.

She was watching him placidly, not a trace of tears or anger, or anything at all. Sansa was beautiful even in her disappointment, and it was the fucking bane of him.

_Weakness_.

His gut ached in recognition of his devastating insecurity, but his ego refused to ignore the momentum of it.

With a flick of his wrist, Tywin flung his tunic at her - specifically at where his seed had gathered and cooled - and stormed out of the room without a word.

Sansa was left to wipe away every trace of him.

The place at the back of her jaw burned and watered; she wanted nothing more than to succumb to the sobs she knew were living just below the surface. But she could not. Not that she chose avoidance, there was simply no path.

Her mind refused the emotion that would allow her to hide. Forcing her to think. To think and deduct and speculate.

_Lady Stark_, her thoughts echoed.

When Sansa rose early the next morning, it was Deena who told her of Lord Tywin's departure well before dawn.

And when asked if there was any correspondence or message from her husband, the Lady of Winterfell already knew the answer was _no_.

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** A huge thank you to my beta, content developer, researcher, sounding-board, and internet life-partner: dealbreaker19 **


	4. Away pt IIa

***Note:** This chapter contains graphic descriptions of violence and allusions of abuse. Please be aware of your own sensibilities and proceed accordingly.*

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The morning was grey and miserable.

Rain that could hardly be called a mist was bitter and cold; so near ice it hurt when it came in contact with bare skin. Those wearing plate could be heard periodically scraping away an accumulated frozen membrane. Even the puffs of steam created by conversation were weighed down by the frosty drizzle.

But misery does love company, and that's exactly what Lady Sansa was waiting for.

Accompanying her at the King's Gate were her advisors, her personal guards, and Lannister men loyal to her - from soldiers to stable hands. Which when combined with every scrape and fraction of uneasiness any one person could exude - the overall effect was... palpable_**.**_

The moment Lord Tywin departed from her and the North, Sansa reined in her two advisers and made sure Lord Manderly was aware of her agenda. While he was confused, he understood; and while he was concerned, he pledged total support.

The muted sound of hooves and boots tramping the sodden ground, and the clanking rise of the heavy portcullis at the outer wall stilled the idle chatter of those chosen to stand in greeting with Lady Sansa.

The sure-footed cadence of man and beast slowed; from the muffled calls and gradual commencement, Sansa could only assume her guests had officially arrived.

At first sight of nondescript figures emerging from the entrance arch and out of the heavy shadow of the curtain wall, Sansa felt her lungs ache to work; she had been holding her breath, unbeknownst. And as more bodies filed through, the crowd mostly on foot, it was her great uncle that stiffened noticeably and made a throaty noise. It was a feral sound coming from the man she knew - something she found disconcerting.

Brynden turned away from the oncoming procession, piercing his great niece with intense watery eyes that made every threat to spill.

"I _can't_," he hoarsely choked. "I'm sorry, my lady, I can't see her."

Sansa laid a gentle hand on the forearm of her great uncle, her own features allowing nothing, but her eyes speaking in their natural understanding and caring for the man.

"And I'll not force you, ser." She squeezed his mail a tiny amount. "Please find comfort inside. And, if you'd prefer, I will apprise you of details later this evening."

At her words the Blackfish blinked back his grief, straightened to his full height and bowed in his easy manner. Sansa smiled softly at him, a silent indication that everything was well, and tightened her fingers for a beat before letting him go.

Ser Brynden briskly walked past them to the great keep, not once looking back.

It was Lord Manderly that took his spot, trudging and wheezing himself to her side and offering his arm. So caught up in the figures looming larger through the gates, Sansa had rested her hand on his abundant forearm without a thought.

At the first sight of her mother, emerging from the solemn group of threadbare fabrics and disheveled furs - like the dead animals themselves were fighting against their display - Sansa bit down on her back teeth.

There was no trace of auburn left; her mother's hair was now completely white. It looked brittle to the touch, but it only seemed to match her complexion. The scars on her face and neck were healed, but no less gruesome – they striped her like war paint the mountain clans wore into battle. Her features were harsh, her ashen skin only adding to the sharp angles and deep shadows.

However, her eyes were the same as the last time Sansa saw them: bloodshot and radiating an unmitigated fury.

Lady Sansa's assessing concentration was severed by a child.

A small willowy thing with blue eyes and wild tangles of brown hair, no older than two or three, ran wobbly and unbidden to the woman that used to be her mother. The girl, as her clean tattered dress and straw doll she clutched would attest, didn't acknowledge anyone; but grasped at the dangling hand of the white-haired woman.

Lady Sansa couldn't help but smile gently at the little girl shyly eying her from behind a heavy curtain of worn brocade. And it was when the girl smiled back that Sansa shuddered, immediately looking to the face of Lady Catelyn.

For a long moment they were locked in awful understanding: her mother had a child. A daughter; and Sansa would never know her. She had a sister, her sons had an aunt, who was within reach and all but dead to her at the same time.

As Sansa tracked the numbers and facts in her mind, attempting to disproved the accuracy of her initial assumption, she was equally forced to accept what she was seeing. It was bitter and cruel, one more twist of fate to swallow down; more torment to set aside in order to carry on.

She felt her chest tighten under her cloak, the bodice of her dress suddenly far too tight. There was a flush rising on Sansa's face, she could do nothing to stop it; and her mother's mouth angled up at the corners - satisfied with hurt Tywin Lannister's wife was enduring.

Behind the cruel woman, the tight-packed group of grubby warriors and outcasts swayed a little in order to make a gap for a grey-haired man who stood a head above the rest and moved forward with a graceless gait.

The man was tall, like Sandor, but the comparison ended there. This man was familiar and a foreign all at once and he looked to be far too thin for his frame.

When he approached the little girl and Lady Catelyn, the woman didn't so much as glance in his direction. The child however turned and squealed; not in fright, but in apparent glee. It was when the veritable giant smiled down at the girl that Sansa's memories provided answers - of which, Lord Manderly's voice provided confirmation.

"Greatjon," Wyman mumbled sadly.

His fellow lord had been held prisoner at the Twins the last anyone had heard; and when he didn't return to the North when the castle fell it was assumed the lord had perished. Yet here he was, a parody of his former self, his infectious grin aimed toward the little girl at his shins, while his eyes spoke of every manner of trauma and haunting.

"Daddy!" the child laugh-screamed, with the enthusiasm owned strictly by babes.

The Lord of White Harbor and the Lady Lannister stood rapt, paralyzed by the staggering truth of it all, as the Greatjon swooped down without a word to procure his daughter in a tight embrace. Hugging her close, he turned and melted once again into the throng of Brotherhood behind him - without the faintest observance of his further surroundings or company.

It was the voice of her mother that broke the trance left by the quick succession of such surreal events.

"Well, Lady Lannister, you have lured me here - what is it you want?"

Lady Catelyn's fury toward her seemed to have scattered over time, but the dispassionate tone she took was bordering on intimidation and Sansa caught the warning flex of leather and mail from the dangerous quartet on guard one pace behind her.

Over the years Sansa acquired a composed deportment while in the presence of the cunning and the ruthless, and it took no more than the shell of her mother to swat at it and unnerve her.

"Justice, mother-"

"Unless you are handing me the head of your husband, I don't see much of an offer by way of justice."

Lady Catelyn took a quick step forward, and in an instant Lord Manderly's arm was stretched protectively between them; Sansa's own arm had reached back, hand splayed in silent entreaty, to stay the four warriors who were a swing away from dispensing the woman who had thought to menace their lady.

Her mother smirked at the call to action and calmly leaned over the large arm barrier.

Sansa immediately took in the smell she remembered as a child, as a young girl, sitting and smiling while her mother brushed her hair in long loving strokes. It was the same smell that washed over her when she was tucked in, when she needed reassurance, when she sought the comfort and protection that could only be found in the arms of her mother...

"I hear you bred for your master-"

Sansa's world burned once again at the malignant tone thrown at her by the woman in her mother's skin. As two sets of Tully blue eyes locked, that same burn calcified her heart and whatever apprehension she initially felt fortified to outright resolution.

"Threaten me, mother, threaten Lord Tywin if you feel you must. But carry one more word into whatever threat or observation you have about my children and you will find your life at a very limited extension."

Lady Catelyn leaned in further, her voice a frightening darkness, "It's easy to be brave when you're one scream away from your lion, little girl."

Lady Sansa stretched forward to close the gap between her and her mother, speaking in a deadly calm, "_I_ am the only lion in Winterfell, mother - and the only one you ever need fear."

The white-haired woman faltered, her eyes lost focus; it was almost imperceptible but it was there, Sansa could see it plain at her proximity, and it seemed to twist the woman into something doubly vulgar and cruel.

"I think you're a liar," she sneered viciously, "I can smell his funk on you from here-"

"_Gods_," Lord Wyman hissed. He took a step toward the woman who once held so much of his respect, using his impressive size to his advantage. "Move away, Lady Catelyn, I'm afraid I must insist."

The woman straightened and stepped back, turning her unending hate on him instead, "You've finally picked a side Manderly? How convenient for you."

Sansa could feel Lord Manderly stiffen in offense, and spoke to stymie the pending quarrel.

"As I said, mother, I have invited you here as a matter of justice." She waited for the fiery, hurtful eyes to return their attention to her and continued, "Lord Tywin may have claimed the North from Lord Bolton, but punishment of the traitor has been left in my-"

"_Give him to me_!"

Her mother frothed, abandoning whatever shreds of propriety she had clung to; suddenly rabid and unpredictable. She was thrashing in every direction looking for a glimpse of the man who killed her first child, her son, her king.

Lady Sansa watched in her periphery, Harwin was walking in the direction of his lady. The look on his face was placid, nonexistent, and it was as though this was a course that he had much experience with. And while the notion of her mother's reduced stability presented more questions than it did answers regarding her leadership ability, Sansa also knew command within the Brotherhood Without Banners was a position given, not won.

Harwin walked to a point precisely in front of her mother and spoke in a strong, calm timbre. "My Lady," he clipped; once, twice, until Lady Catelyn stopped searching and fixated on the voice of the man in front of her. The effect was instant, she ceased fidgeting and the wildness in her eyes banked until she was once more made of stone.

With a nod to a sentry at the far end of the bailey Lady Sansa set into motion the parade of her doleful offering. A sacrifice to the woman so changed by the suffering she endured, and a prize of justice expected by those north men and women who survived their own agonies.

The misery of weather only added to the impending doom for the just over fifty bodies tethered together and shuffling as a group to a place in front of the white-haired woman. They each were still wearing overly soiled clothing to either feast or fight, and the sight would have been comedic if it hadn't been so tragic.

Most had been kept in stables and kennels, treated worse than the animals they'd displaced, but they were at the conclusion of their stay.

This was their day of judgment.

Once the crowd had stilled, Sansa heard the distinct sound of whimpering and attempts to console those who were distraught; but it was through that noise that the Lady of Winterfell was addressed in voice that pitched to the point of being a shriek.

It was a frightened young woman who had pushed her way to the edge of the pond of bodies. She was older than Sansa, but nowhere near the height, and the dress she wore was once beautiful - that could easily be seen; yet so were the dark splashes and lines that had seeped into the fabric and defined the blood of those who fell around her at her capture.

The terrified woman focused her red-rimmed eyes at Sansa, horribly begging, "_Please_, my lady," it was mostly a wet sob, "this is _not_ how justice is performed in the North!"

Every set of eyes were stabbing her; loyalists, the condemned, outlaws, and those of her mother.

Lady Sansa was roiling in a storm of discomfort; it took a moment, though she expertly tucked it away inside - stepped around it and focused on the memory she needed.

"No, my lady, you are correct," her tone was affable; something that made men and woman ease into her company, this was no exception, "There is an honour deeply embedded in northern justice." Her intonation sunk to match the climate, "But your _king_, and his men, were not afforded that honour either."

The young lady was visibly shaking, "That was _war_!" she screeched before crumpling at the feet of those agitated and grumbling around her.

Guilt by association.

She knew that this woman, most within the group of captives, had no hand in the brutal disloyalty at the Twins; no knowledge of their king's betrayal. But to bend now would be weakness, and to become weak at this pinnacle point would only serve to threaten her son in the future.

_It only takes one... One babe with a chance to live... and your own children could be at the wrong end of a blade._

Her courage steadied.

Lady Sansa would _not_ be timid on the grounds of her ancestors, in the name of all those she had lost.

She raised her chin to address the crowd, address every single soul assembled, but it was her mother's voice that shook them all.

"_My_ war is not yet finished," her voice like curdled milk, Lady Catelyn stepped toward the crowd, "and _you_ will die anyway."

The drone of muttered complaint stopped.

Save a few horses baying there was no sound, not even that of nature; the rain choosing that moment to end and the wind became scarce. It was eerily quiet - the kind that raises hair to stand on the back of one's neck.

The white-haired woman walked a small arc in order to best face the weeping young lady in the group, but it was every captive that she was addressing.

"I care no more for _you_ than your fathers, sons, brothers, and uncles cared for _me_," she drawled casually.

Looking at Lord Wyman for only a moment, Lady Catelyn's entire face shifted to remembrance and sorrow, her voice intoned that same sadness, "I saw the way they happily butchered Wendel Manderly." She paced slow, back and forth, like a caged animal, "I watched Smalljon Umber fend off a score of men from _his king!_" she bellowed then sunk her inflection to a crawling sneer,"before being held down and beheaded like a dog. Dacey Mormont had no hesitation in tearing into a throng of her own _allies! _Only to be cut down."

Lady Catelyn stood reed-straight, her voice equally hollow; the sound made Sansa's skin prickle.

"Lady Sansa is paying a debt, not as a Lannister but as a Stark - and she is the embodiment of northern honour in doing so."

Sansa's insides churned as she flicked her eyes at Lady Catelyn; but she could no more discern sincerity than she could before. Her heart would like to think that her mother forgave her, but she was not so naive to assume it. The woman's speech was cutting and poignant, and if her name was required to make it that way, then so be it.

"The Red Wedding will _never_ happen again," the Merciless Mother stated icily, "and your bodies will swing and rot from here to the Twins as a testament to the price of such treachery."

The white-haired woman turned her head to face Sansa. There was nothing of the passionate Lady Catelyn who was speaking only moments ago; this entity was of nightmares, and when it spoke, voices were heard from all directions.

It was something sinister.

"Bring me Bolton, his Frey whore, and his bastard."

Sansa turned and nodded to one of the men to her side.

The soldier took another with him, waded into the sea of trussed bodies and emerged with the two of the three people that had been requested.

With a small wave of her fingers, Sansa order her men to deliver their charges to the outlaw in their midst.

They did not hesitate in their compliance.

From the far end of the bailey, from the kennels, came both the marched symmetry of step and the defined groans of agony.

Two of her men flanked Ramsay Snow. He had been trussed with his arms behind his back and a rod had been threaded through the gaps at his elbows - each side of the rod was manned by a soldier.

The bastard wasn't being restrained, he was being supported.

A fortnight with the Mountain's men reduced the man both in faculty and flesh; below each knee was a pulpy mess. The bones were shattered and the holes at his heels were proof of being hooked by tendons and hung like game.

His face was an equal horror: his lips were gone, his teeth had been chipped out, his tongue had been split and shortened, and the eye that remained was distant as if seeing only shadows. His skin was a tapestry of running sores and open wounds, and without the means to seal his lips the bastard simply let his head sag forward and leak any fluids that happened to collect in his mouth - stringing down the front of what Sansa was sure was the remnants of a dress.

Whatever he was before, _a breathing abhorrence who delighted in killing those Sansa cared about_, _that_ man was nowhere to be found - excised through rituals of malice and pain.

She fought it. Sansa fought against the delicious want to approve of the bastard's suffering, and in the end she had indeed allowed that spark of revenge to live in her heart. Allowed its sour taste to coat the bitterness of loss.

Ramsay Snow would die today. That knowledge crept into her mind and made her chillingly happy.

Six men of the Brotherhood stepped forward to relinquish the captives from their handlers. With a man on each side them, Bolton and Walda were pushed to their knees. Ramsay struggled, as was his way, but his uselessness was more than apparent; causing the two men at his charge to laugh at his attempts and simply lower the drooling, babbling wretch with the rod they were holding.

Facing a condemned crowd of peers and poor fools knelt the sum total of Sansa's nightmares: a broken bastard, a fallen lord, and an unwitting wife with an unfortunate surname - on either side of her marriage.

In a wave it all felt so ridiculously petty, yet so significant in the same breath.

There was an awful moment in which her guts wrung, and Sansa wanted nothing more than to run inside like she used to as a child when her siblings were being terrors.

She wanted to cower in the warmth of her bed and have someone else relay the horror she knew she was about to witness...

Lady Stoneheart, as the small folk liked to call her, quietly paced a circle around the three people she asked for.

The Frey woman looked preoccupied, her eyes were without focus. It was the look of loss and disparaging sorrow. A look that made Sansa's empathetic pain etch itself on her face. The act was something of a relief - it was a solid reminder that she would, indeed, suffer the emotional toll of her retribution.

She was not yet a monster, still a hybrid, prominently Stark, and she will gladly own the hurt of guilt.

Roose Bolton seemed wooden, yet tired; his vision as far away as that of his wife. This man's look held nothing of fear or remorse, more so calculation and impatience. It was as though he was waiting for something as mundane as his morning meal, and not his own death.

But Sansa could easily pick apart the truth behind Lord Bolton's mask: shame and embarrassment. Though neither were in reference or consideration of those he had summarily cursed, but purely selfish motives. She was honest with herself in that her personal knowledge of remorseless men allowed her the opportunity to observe without any kind of hitch in her sensibilities. That same honesty prevented her from discerning whether or not that wisdom was a strength or a weakness.

She looked on as Lady Catelyn continued her silent prowl around the unperturbed kneeling trio; and as the larger crowd of doomed souls started to become restless, the woman's strategy became abundantly clear: disquiet the herd. The remaining captives would take each and every step of their journey steeped in anxious fear of their diminutive captor.

Without flourish or preamble, the white-haired woman ceased her pace and stood without movement behind Lady Bolton.

As her mother raised her hand Sansa had an instant pang of awful anticipation; but was almost let down when the older woman rested her fingers lightly over the center of her breast, over the oddest jewelry Sansa had ever seen.

It was an adornment Sansa failed to notice, even in passing as the procession of Brotherhood arrived, even as the woman stood directly in front of her.

Around the neck of her mother was finely braided leather cord. And attached to that cord was what looked like a petrified weirwood branch. It seemed to be over the length of her hand - from the tip of her middle finger, to the bottom of the heel of her palm - and curved slightly, more severely at the end that dangled lowest.

It was an odd accessory, her mother once dressed with every consideration of surroundings and company.

It wasn't until Lady Stoneheart stood behind Walda Bolton and clutched at her neck-piece, that Sansa understood _this _woman dressed no differently.

Pulling at the bottom end of the white branch, the white haired woman seemed to separate it into halves. What became agonizingly clear was that the branch didn't break, it was actually a dagger being unsheathed.

The glint of steel was bright and distracting on such a dull morning, and the more her mother continued to slowly pull down, the more the delicate blade was revealed. It was slightly curved, no wider than her smallest finger, and no longer than the width of her hand...

_Oh, gods!_ her mind screamed, as her memories pushed forward.

"_...He used a dagger... with a blade no longer than the width of my hand..."_ Her mother's terrifying words echoed in her wakefulness the same way that spectral voice sometimes inhabited her dreams.

Sansa steadied herself on the arm of Lord Manderly, retracted behind the armour she loathed and loved simultaneously, and waited for the inevitable.

The two men at Walda's shoulders held a tighter grip at the same moment the white haired woman drifted forward with the grace of flowing water. In a quick, flawless movement one hand fisted a hold of Walda's hair and the other hand slid forward along the side of her neck.

Swallowing hard, Sansa watched the beautiful little blade slip under doomed woman's flesh. It raised the skin on her neck like snake under sand, only to disappear inward with a practiced hook of her mother's wrist. It was mere moments that the knife was employed before being elegantly removed.

Sansa stood in mild confusion; she knew what death looked like, she even knew what the brutality of torture looked like, but this was none of those things. The wound from the dirk barely bled; Lady Walda was silent, kneeling, blinking out tears, and looking equal parts bewildered and pitifully hopeful that she had been offered some type of clemency.

It was several heartbeats until the Lady Bolton's eyes went frighteningly wide, in the same heartbeat she heard Lord Manderly curse under his breath - he knew what was happening. Sansa wanted to address the man at her side but was taken by the scene unfolding before her.

"Hum, my lady!" Manderly whispered at her as quietly as he could, "Please, my lady, hum to yourself."

She was dumbfounded by Lord Wyman's bizarre instruction, and her comprehension came far too late.

It started as a wet rasp. Lady Walda tilted her head back minutely and opened her mouth a little - as one would to catch a deeper breath - and the sucking wet noise became louder.

Sansa watched in horror as the kneeling woman started to writhe in panic, her sodden breathing ever increasing.

When her struggle intensified, the men at her shoulders held her still to endure her creeping death.

Lady Walda screamed then.

She opened her mouth and let loose gurgling wails drenched in blood from a slit throat that was nowhere on the outside of her body. Her lungs coughed out the gore that was filling them - rivers of deep crimson blood, and foam of the most fetching pink trickled from her open mouth.

The dying woman heaved violently, trying to take in the air it needed to live, her lungs refusing to fill with anything but the blood that had been diverted with malicious precision.

But it was the noise.

The sounds a slowly dying body makes as it tries to cling to vestiges of life are nothing if not a nightmare symphony. They are the cries and creaks that trigger the most primal part of the mind to want to run to and help, in the same manner a mother arcs at the distress of any child.

And yet it was the thought of her children that ensured Sansa made no move; the reason her natural compassion retreated and her learned impassiveness prevailed. Her heart hardened, swift to granite, at even the passing potential of her sons suffering in _any_ capacity.

She looked on with a demeanour employed by, and adopted from, her lord husband.

Satisfied in her horrible accomplishment with the Frey woman, Lady Catelyn turned her attention to Ramsay; her countenance becoming unbelievably ominous.

There was no gentleness in the movement of the blade afforded to the bastard; her mother struck forward and jabbed the beautiful little dagger into the man's neck, flicked her hand viciously and yanked it back again.

If anything, Sansa thought, it would lead to a quicker end; but until that time, the entire assembly was audience to a horrible duet of _justice_... gagging on their own blood.

Lord Bolton sat unflinching between the grotesque throes of the closest people he had to family ricocheting on either side, and simply waited his turn; though it would not be granted until there was no trace of life surrounding him, and he knew it.

The moment Lady Bolton stopped choking out her sickly wails, the Merciless Mother laid forth her instructions.

"Hang her in clear view at the East Gate."

With that simple order the sagging body was dragged without ceremony to be hung.

When Ramsay quieted into death, he was strung up at the Hunter's Gate.

Sansa watched as her mother once again paced a circle around her prey, this time dragging the hem of her gown through viscous puddles of crimson until the weight of absorption pulled at her skirt like it was a grisly train.

Again the group of captives watched until they were shifting and nervous; again Lady Catelyn waited until they were near madness before she stopped.

Once behind Lord Bolton, it was he who spoke first.

"Get on with it, you cunt." There was nothing in the words, like his eyes they were tired and unfocused.

The white-haired woman stepped closer to him than she did the first two, and smiled. It wasn't something from her terrifying persona, it was the smile Sansa knew from her childhood. She had to look away so as not to taint the memories she held so dear. However, when her mother spoke, Sansa couldn't help but look back again.

As the men holding Roose Bolton pushed his shoulders to bend him further forward, Lady Catelyn addressed him in a kind, strange manner.

"Know that you die by the bones of the king you betrayed."

With her words, she clenched a vicious hold on the man's hair and, unlike the first two she dispatched with delicate ease, Lady Stoneheart took her tiny knife and began sawing into the neck of lord she so hated. The lord who not only crossed their king, but killed her son, and took so much pleasure in her own brutalizing and humiliation.

This man would not die neatly.

She was practically kneeling on his back, twisting and pulling her blade in no true pattern. Her fist would plunge into the meaty gore up to her knuckles; even as the blood sprayed, her hand did not stop its tireless jagged rhythm.

Lord Bolton had his eyes squeezed tightly shut and his teeth bared. It was evident he held his breath to aim for death, but little daggers and large necks would always require the body to force itself to breathe.

When he did, it was brutal.

At the same moment he gasped for air, he groaned or keened, or made to speak - whatever it was, it was made appallingly muddled by the fact the noise came from the gape in his throat not the mouth on his face.

Lady Sansa shivered.

Lady Catelyn did not hesitate.

Punching over and over with her knife, as Lord Bolton's life drained into a pool at his knees. He was motionless save for the savage blows her mother was inflicting.

As the horror consumed her, Sansa did not notice she was leaning on Lord Manderly with a progressively heavier weight. The large man said nothing, he did not offer even a look in her direction, he merely adjusted his stance discretely to accommodate her.

The bailey held no noise but soft weeping from the bound crowd, and the spitting ragged breathing of the Merciless Mother. When her hand finally came to a stop, her arm was drenched past her elbow and the dead lord's head remained attached by the bone her little blade could not severe - though not for lack of trying.

_They had to get an axe to finish it._

The statement bobbed to the surface, and Sansa was not at all surprised when that was exactly how Lord Bolton ended. His body was strung up on the King's Road just at the outer ridge of the wintertown, his head rested on a pike outside the King's Gate.

Lady Sansa was snapped out of her deliberate sedation and addled thought when she absently watched her mother clean and restore her blade.

Her words echoed nefarious and empty.

..._you die by the bones of the king you betrayed._

..._you die by the bones of the king…_

..._you die by the bones…_

And as her mother slipped the pretty little blade back into place at her breast, Sansa recognized with a sickly pang that it was _not _the branch of a weirwood she cradled there.

It was her first child. Her son.

Her king.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

In the later part of the evening Sansa ventured to find and spend time with her uncle.

Her morning's company departed just as quickly as they arrived and refused any offer of provisions, citing that _gold is so rarely poisoned_.

She found him well into his cups and sitting idle by the large round fire pit in the Great Hall.

Accepting his offer of wine, Sansa joined him as the dark descended the room leaving nothing but the glow of the flames to limn their faces - though neither looked anywhere but straight ahead.

Ser Brynden told her of her mother when she was but a girl running wild on the rivers. Of how she was fearless even as a babe, and spoke nothing less than abrasive truths. He had continued, somberly recounting the death of Lady Minisa and how her own mother had changed abruptly, seemingly overnight, to fulfill her duty as the Lady of Riverrun.

As he talked and she listened, Sansa marveled how Arya was never truly compared with Catelyn Stark, always Lady Lyanna. But the truth of it was that Arya was just as much their mother as she was, perhaps even more.

Most were easy to dissuade the notion simply because Sansa looked so much like a Tully, like her mother, but the matter of parental influence has nothing to do with markings. It had more to do with, as her husband often noted, the way one carries themselves - it's buried in their actions, in their decisions.

When she left him, the Blackfish had talked himself sober and was falling back into silent reflection.

Walking to her chambers was a blur, being preened and dressed for sleep was nothing more than an exercise in detachment; for when her hearth was stoked, her bed turned down, and her body snugly tucked in - she wept.

The Lady of Winterfell let the agony of rekindled grief and despair take her, quietly - not a sound escaping the covers and pillows she keened into.

Her mother.

It is so easy to give in to the prospect of vengeance when the blood to do so slicks hands other than your own.

What she had witnessed that morning was the brutal honesty of retribution.

The brutal honesty of who _she_ was.

If the vengeance she had encouraged over the years was fit for sound, it would be the wheezing gurgling screams of those drowning in their own blood at her nod.

_Gods!_

She was a passive murderer...

She would _not_ augment her support of the Brotherhood...

She cried all the harder.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Lady Sansa glanced at the large double doors of her father's solar as they opened. She was waiting for Lord Manderly, but when Ser Brynden entered instead she sat up taller and waited for him to speak.

"A party from the Night's Watch are here to claim the those who remain in the dungeons, my lady."

"I didn't send for them," she said, at the same time she racked her mind for the information needed to make sense of the matter.

Her husband had been the one to sift through the scores of men and women held captive by Bolton for crimes ranging from treason and murder to serving a meal in a manner their previous lord found offensive. He had been able to wade amongst the offenders and divine fair judgment in the most efficient manner possible, but it still left the cells packed beyond their rightful capacity.

"No, my lady," the Blackfish explained, confirming her estimation, "it seems it was Lord Tywin who sent word."

She nodded, "Work with them, find them food and accommodation for the length of their stay, but I want it ensured that every condemned man was given the choice of death or the wall before they are handed over."

"Yes, my lady, of course," Ser Brynden nodded back. Yet he remained in the doorway and looked set to fidget.

Sansa observed the man with mild concern, "What is it uncle?"

He smiled in his easy carefree way at her words; almost the same way, Sansa noticed, he made to charm and enticed lords and ladies into his confidence. It was his trick to get her to smile in return - it never failed.

She grinned at his mischief and chuckled lightly, "What are you up to-"

Her words died then and there; pebbles of conversation plinking and falling back down her throat, and she was left to force herself to breathe.

It only seems fair that the physical world would crash to a halt if one's past were to transcend to one's now.

...or simply walk through a door.

"_Jon..._" It was halfway to a question and well past a statement - it was whatever her lungs could produce under the circumstance.

Sansa thought she was smiling, but didn't know. Her face had forgotten how to tell the rest of her what it was doing. But the boy she knew so long ago stood in front of her a man, a rougher image of her father, and he was smiling wide, her father's smile - she made her mind tell her mouth to reciprocate the pleasantry just in case she suffered internal mutiny.

Ser Brynden left without dismissal, quietly closing the door behind him and instructing her guards to allow no interruptions.

Inside the solar were two people seeing ghosts; who _were _the ghosts of Winterfell, themselves. But visual markings were the extent of any comparisons; these two people were both a mixture of the equivalent and the antithesis of those haunted in their faces.

It didn't make the reunion any less intense; any less difficult. There was much to say, but there were so many ends it was impossible to determine where to start.

Thankfully Lady Sansa knew to rely on what came naturally, what came without thought or effort: courtesy.

He politely refused her offer of wine and opted instead for water with lemon. For such a banal occurrence, Jon's choice of beverage seemed to encourage hesitation toward him, on her part.

Moments passed and smudged together to become uncomfortable silence, the two of them still standing in awe of one another, neither having talked casually to each other before.

"You…" Jon started nervously.

He couldn't keep her eye, and Sansa found the idea of a shy Lord Commander somewhat endearing.

Jon cleared his throat and tried again.

"You have children now. I hear- I heard, I mean..."

Again it was awkward, but Sansa could see quite clearly that the boy she shrugged off as a child was trying so hard, now as a man grown, to engage her the same gentle way.

"Yes, two boys," she said, smiling in an effort to set him at ease. "Twins," she beamed - and was excited to see Jon smile back in the same fashion.

"You would be an amazing mother-"

"Jon, I am so sorry-"

They trampled over each other in words, but stood back a pace to digest exactly what each other had admitted.

"There's no need… To apologize that is."

"I think there is, Jon." Her tone was steady, serious.

Jon lost whatever timidity was left in him, "We were children."

"I was there, I know how horribly you were treated by myself... and my mother." The last words were hardly a whisper.

"We've grown up, Sansa," Jon stepped closer, his kind smile widened. "If I can't forgive _you_, my sister, than my experience has been for naught."

Sansa took a deep breath, smiling just as kind and just as wide.

"Thank you," she breathed, as she bit back and swallowed the tears that were building.

Jon seemed to understand, seemed to know exactly what she was doing - if Sansa were to guess, Jon was making the same effort.

"Tell me about them," he finally gulped out in a squeak; laughing at his own pitch.

Sansa stepped closer still, laughing right along with him. She was still giggling like the little girl he remembered as she began.

"Rykar, the youngest, has the excitable curiosity of Rickon and Arya, and the want to climb and find adventure like Bran." She grinned at her own telling, they were good memories.

"My oldest, Tysan, can toddle into a room and command every bit attention just by smiling - so much like Robb," she laughed light and pure, "Remember his charm?"

Sansa looked at Jon, she hadn't realized she'd even looked away as she was reminiscing. He was beaming bright and wide, so much like their father, with the same shine in his eyes that Lord Eddard would get when talking about something or someone that made him happy.

"Oh, yes," he chuckled, "nary a maid was safe..."

Jon stopped, sobering slightly, knowing the woman Sansa looked so much like would have scolded him for such presumption.

Sansa reciprocated the Lord Commander's sudden seriousness for a moment, then employed a softened look.

"Even at such a young age, Tysan has a pensive side - so concerned with those around him - very much like you, Jon."

The grown man in front of her transformed once again into the shy boy she knew as a child. The boy she treated so coldly, yet who would always greet her with warmth. The boy she saw as no more than a blight on her family, yet who would always invite her to join whatever fun was being schemed.

He was shifting his weight from foot to foot and darting his look to everything but the young woman that should have been his focus.

She took the last two steps needed to close their distance and draped her arms around his neck; pulling him tight into her embrace, she spoke through the cusp of her emotion.

"My children carry pieces of everyone I love, Jon." Her voice was rough with guilt and shame and remorse, and it was made more so by speaking into the heavy fur collar of his cloak. Sansa squeezed her arms around his neck harder and all but sobbed, "_Everyone_."

She felt Jon's hands grip into her back, like she was going to float away if he didn't hold on, and his head drop a little heavier on her shoulder. He shivered then, her brother, in her arms, and Sansa cradled his sobs before she'd ever heard them.

They stood there in each other's embrace for an endless time, weeping apologies and acceptances, laughing in one another's hair before crying anew.

It was then Sansa realized what children they were. _Still_.

Whatever life separated her and Jon, they were no more than babes set loose in a world that fell upon them with sharp teeth and honed blades. They had both bled and suffered in a way that should never be known to the innocent; but she knew that was the way for every child, and her heart clenched at the thought of her own.

What a grievous proposition.

Yet here they were, her and Jon, scarred and jaded, clinging and crying and laughing and smiling, _together_.

They had survived.

And sadly _that_, that vile and vicious truth, _was_ the way for every child.

They separated again and stood at few paces away, mopping their tears and wiping their noses - laughing at each other for the trouble.

When each were calm Jon once again took a deep breath, and Sansa was able to discern, even in such a short time, that this is what he did before there was a question or difficult subject.

"Sansa," he coughed to clear his words, "You should know that the girl wed to Bolton's bastard wasn't Arya."

His sister frowned slightly, not so much a look of sadness, and just nodded; neither did she seem surprised.

"You knew this?" Jon questioned, almost incredulously.

"Yes," she answered simply. Sansa would not expose details regarding her relationship with Tywin Lannister, no matter the ear.

"He trusts you then." His eyes shifted over Sansa's face, a mark of his own intuition.

"I don't know..." She looked away, her brow slightly pinched; it was the truth as far as Jon could tell.

"He must."

"I'm... useful here."

Opening her arms, Sansa swayed to indicate the land around her.

Jon gave her painful smile, it was understanding and remorse in one tiny feature.

They fell again into silence, but this time it wasn't so uncomfortable.

She watched as Jon's brow furrowed and his lips pulled thin, she knew he was edging toward something heavy. Something that weighed him down.

"They say the summer may last ten years."

Sansa huffed a light laugh, not as heavy as she assumed it seemed

"The longer the better."

Jon smiled at her in a way that stuttered her heartbeat, it looked so much like her father. But when he dropped the casual gaiety just as quickly, he became no more than a stranger.

"Sansa, it doesn't matter how long it lasts." The Lord Commander stretched his back and neck, tilting his head as he spoke, "As soon as the frost deepens and the first real snow flies, I want you and... my nephew," he tried to lighten at the word, but simply couldn't, "to already be in the South. Promise me."

She laughed again, light and airy to lessen the tension, but it was thick around them and her instincts turned her icy.

"Why do you want us out of Winterfell, Jon? Why are you insisting the _Lord of Winterfell_ go back to Casterly Ro-"

Jon lunged at her in such a frenzy, Sansa's mouth yelped before she knew she had opened it. He held her tight by her upper arms and wore a look of both profound sadness and fear.

"Not _west_, Sansa!" he barked, "_South_!" His eyes traced back and forth over her face, "Get your children, go to Lannisport, secure gold and ships and you sail as far _south_ as you can. Somewhere without snow and ice - understand?"

She didn't, and it must have read plainly on her face because Jon calmed, his eyes stopped their rapid tracking, his grip eased and his hands slid down to take hold of her own. He raised them, turning as he lifted, and kissed each palm before gently letting go.

Stepping back from her a pace, Jon spoke in a tone of undeniable affection.

"I love you, Sansa," his words resonated as awkward; he'd never said them to her before, "If you have any love for me, you will promise to heed my wishes."

His face once more relaxed his mouth remained serious, but the lines that made him look severe were gone - the ghost of her father was staring at her, sedate and full of warmth.

"You're scaring me," was all her body could breathe out.

She sounded like the same frightened little girl he would find under the furs of her parents bed after a story from Old Nan.

"You _should _be scared," was Jon's own shaky reply. "Promise me," he pushed.

In the man's eyes Sansa read warning. It was a message she was experienced in, one of many that Lord Tywin exhibited over the years. One of many she knew to look for, and knew to recognize even without the advantage of a verbal cue.

It was a clue she acknowledged if left ignored would either work against her or take with it opportunity. And judging by the terrifying passion in which Jon was imparting it, only a fool would ignore such intuition.

"I promise, Jon." It was a whisper, but it was fierce.

The young man sagged like he'd aged five decades in that one moment, but he smiled again - and it was such a coveted prize. Sansa knew that whatever she had just agreed to to earn _that_ from him was something significant.

"How long are you here?" Sansa spoke for no other reason than to push back the dread and silence that was becoming constrictive around them; but as the words tumbled, she proudly felt it was a rather profound question.

Jon smiled once again.

"As long as it takes to secure new brothers from your dungeons."

It was Sansa's turn to smile.

"I'm afraid you will be detained until those men have had their plights sufficiently reviewed."

A slight wave of confusion washed through Jon's mind; the letter from Lord Tywin assured him the necessary litigation had been performed. It wasn't until he looked squarely at Sansa that he saw the glimmer in her eyes - it was the same mischief Robb was capable of, reflected in the very same shade of blue.

He laughed then; loud and unbidden. A sound that soothed and mended; tacking closed some of the most painful of fractures.

They would have their time, his sister would see to it. It wasn't a cure, but it was an opportunity to encourage healing. To encourage the familiarity that should have been the most natural of bonds between them.

It was a beginning.

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A huge, huge thank you to Ice-Eagle Y'siri for stepping in at the eleventh hour to beta this beast for me.


	5. Away pt IIb

A full two days later was when Lady Sansa could afford Lord Manderly the time he had requested to meet. He assured her apologies were misplaced - offering his liege understanding instead of consternation.

Though as they sat together in the solar Sansa could hardly think of as hers, speaking to and resolving current inventories and land matters, Lord Manderly bluntly interjected his truer reason for requesting her time.

"Your brother, my lady," he shifted comfortably in his chair, "Rickon - I believe he lives."

The large man said the words like he was relaying a store counts, or the details of a petty quarrel between tradesmen tasked to the rebuild of the castle.

Lady Sansa immediately withdrew. Her countenance became stony, any outward demeanour toward the lord sitting across from her matched her physical rigidity.

"My brothers are dead, my lord, and your jape is in poor taste," she said with the warmth of winter.

"No jape, my lady, I sent King Stannis' Hand to search for him," was his unflinching reply.

Lord Manderly sat, convinced in his truth, searching Lady Sansa's eyes for a sign of trust - a sign that she in any way believed him.

It was long tense moments she scrutinized him. Assessed his every feature, disassembled every statement and confidence he had ever given her. Lord Manderly knew this time was as best as any to lay his tale at her feet, he had no other recourse but to sit in silence, open and unguarded, and let her dissect him.

There was nothing in the man that told her he was lying. No muscles that twitched, his eyes didn't look away, nothing in him garnered attention to insist Lord Manderly spoke anything but out of honesty.

Lady Sansa had a moment of dizziness; first Jon, now Rickon. If she allowed a flood of hope to envelope her she knew it would be her downfall.

Gods, but how she wanted to be washed away.

Her approach to this information, this tiny grain of triumph and jubilation, had to be treated no differently than anything of impact presented to her.

Sansa began slowly, "When Stannis' man finds him-"

Lord Wyman did not fail to notice Lady Sansa said _when_, not _if_.

"-you must not bring him here, you _must not_ instill him as Lord."

He felt the sting of the girl's presumption, and immediately let his gall speak on his behalf.

"You've certainly been moulded into a Lannister, haven't you? Need I remind you that here in the _North_, the right of succession falls to sons, to Starks, _not_ who has the most gold."

The fat lord knew his error even as the words fell out of his maw; the woman sitting across from had grace of blood, not wealth.

Her muted agitation only confirmed his recognition.

"Do you think Lord Tywin secured Winterfell out of _romance_ - as a prize for his _wife_?"

The words were caustic, but her demeanour was accommodatingly kind. It was a curious puzzle to be sure, one that the older man could only envy.

"My husband fought, bled, and _removed _the lineage of a house and its vassals for _his _son to sit this seat. Do you think one boy rescued from exile, Stark or not, _my brother_ or not, means anything to him?"

She had given him a gift and he knew it. The information and opinion from her lips could end her life if used against her, and she handed it to him with the trust Lord Manderly had once earned and admired in Ned Stark.

"You must keep him safe, my lord, if not for me then for my father. Do not put my brother into the mouth of a lion for the sake of honour."

"If your brother lives, this is _his _seat my lady." His tone was no longer accusatory, more beseeching.

"I do not dispute that, my lord, but he will die for it if _you _assert _your _ambition."

There was no room for voice in the quiet that enveloped the room. It was needed by each to measure, appraise, and tally the worth of information and the trust between them. It wasn't threatening, it was necessary.

After the passing of what could have been an hour, it was Lady Sansa who breached the silence with her soft confidence.

"If my brother lives, and you keep him safe, there _will _be a Stark in Winterfell. The North will be whole again my lord - _that_ is what I work toward and sacrifice for, but it takes time and patience."

Wyman Manderly knew that what she was saying, with words and allusion, was truth. It would be folly to accept Tywin Lannister as a man of conscience; he swept the North from the lord who killed its king, and the Great Lion expected the North to pay its debt.

With a thoughtful nod to Lady Sansa, the large man pondered aloud.

"Your seat is now the West, my lady. Even if Tywin Lannister dies, his bannermen would never agree to give up his son's seat in the North."

"His son is equally mine-"

Sansa smiled in the way the older man remembered of her when she was but a babe, and could not stop his own grin from growing in genuine accordance.

"-and I've changed _your _mind, my lord."

Lord Wyman Manderly felt an overwhelming cascade of calm knowing he sat in audience of such a remarkable young woman.

"You make your father proud, my lady," he offered, with a surprising amount of emotion.

The large man had thought his tears were dried and forgotten after the death of his wife; the death of his son reintroduced the wretched display when he found time to mourn privately. But this young woman, this progeny of a man he more than respected, managed to evoke a happiness he thought was equally dried and forgotten, and with it were the hint of tears in direct reflection of that elation.

Lady Sansa smiled at Lord Manderly, her own eyes reciprocating a watery happiness; and for the first time in more years than she care count, she knew in her bones that her world, her north _and_ her west, would one day be hale and contented.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

She said she would sleep on the journey, but there she was awake and alert; every breath and heartbeat accented by the swift thump and push of each swell the Sunset Sea had to offer.

With every passing hour turning to days and days that disappeared into moons in Winterfell, Sansa felt more and more of herself fading along with them. She ached for her children. She ached for the companionship of her husband; and before she could make the effort to investigate the exact impact that particular truth meant she had settled her expectations with Ser Brynden and Lord Manderly, and made her unexpected departure.

Instead of leaving the way she came, Lady Sansa arranged a truer albeit riskier route. She had initially intended to make the journey on land, but her great uncle struck down any mention of the King's Road. Her mother would surely kill her at the chance, or bargain her for Tywin, _or her sons_, and Sansa steeled in her acceptance of the older man's counsel.

Lord Manderly worked magic of some kind, levered favour without her knowledge and chartered one of the lowest, longest, fastest looking boats she had ever seen - not that her knowledge of marine transportation was extensive. It was a longship, like the Ironborn raiders, but it was stripped of everything pertaining to war, everything heavy, and it made the vessel all the faster.

When she made to leave, it was evident her party of one handmaiden, four sentries, and over thirty grey and gold clad Lannister soldiers were _not _traveling to White Harbor.

More magic.

They made their way to Torrhen's Square and, after securing one of the swiftest, cordial feasts and local introductions she had ever been part to, continued down the waterway to Saltspear.

Waiting for her was a burly northern captain wearing seal skins and a beard she was sure repelled water as easily as his garments; who ushered her and her entourage onto the northern built, and manned, boat.

"Seems most forget we have just as much wood and water as the rest of 'em, m'lady," Captain Tavver had smiled at her, knowing her question by merely looking at her.

"She's fast," he declared proudly, "Not even squid can catch the Baikal. No worries, she'll see you safe at your Rock, m'lady."

"Thank you, captain. I am in your debt," Sansa whispered in an air of awe; it was a warm and generous revelation. She felt safe with this man, and for the first time in long time she let her adapted tendency to control drift away as quick and easy as the ship itself sailed.

They had given the mainland a large berth to better ride the air currents and to assuredly avoid any trouble born of the Iron Isles. And true to his word, Captain Tavver delivered his precious, unannounced cargo to Lannisport in just shy of a sennight.

It was the deadest hour of night and there was nothing of a moon to speak of. The weather had changed abruptly as they coasted inland toward the harbour and by the time the ship had been tied to the quay, the sky opened up with rain that was unseen until it hit you.

The effort lay in controlling of her excitement. Regardless of the weather, regardless of the hours still needed to travel inland then up the lengthy incline to the castle, she had to hold back the small flickering burn of elation so it would not become incendiary - transposing itself to impatience.

By the time her small forward party met the first gates of Casterly Rock, the rain had ended and messenger sent ahead of them had successfully relayed notice of Lady Lannister's advent.

Her arrival was nothing grand, nothing planned even, and she knew she would have to explain it to Lord Tywin sooner rather than later, but in her ascent to the nursery none of that mattered.

Sleep addled and groggy handmaids rushed to their lady as she walked the well lit corridor with a single minded agenda. Her wet outer cloak and frock coat were peeled away as she moved; it was a testament to the efficiency and ingenuity of the women she entrusted with her care that they knew not to ask Lady Sansa to stop or change course. They knew her mission and were not going to impede it.

The entourage fell away by increments the dryer and closer to Sansa's destination they became. By the time she pushed open the heavy door to the sanctuary she had been craving for more than half a year, Sansa was alone.

Leaving the door open behind her, Sansa stopped to gather herself. She stood at a physical and emotional threshold, and it took every thread she was composed of not to come apart now that she was finally there.

Taking long paces toward the two high-sided beds, set so close together they were touching, she could feel the fabric of herself start to unravel.

She felt starved. Emaciated from missing her sons and gaunt from missing her husband. Three entities that gnawed at her with a hunger greater than any lack of food. And when she peered over the edge of Tysan's crib, she let out a silent sob of relief; she was once again sustained.

There, below, were her children. Her boys who entered the world together still managed to sleep by the pair. Rykar had been scaling the confines of his nighttime gaol before she left and it seemed that instead of fighting it, the decision had been made to prevent injury and assist with his escape.

Rykar was curled into his brother like a vine; his head was at Tysan's feet and their arms and legs were twined in a manner that defied logic.

Sansa gently raked her fingertips through her eldest son's soft auburn locks; then with that same touch, removed the bare foot of her youngest from where it was mashed into Tysan's face - not that he was perturbed in any way by the offense from his younger brother.

Her fingers danced from one boy to the next; just touching them. Moving through gold curls and waves of fire, down cheeks coloured a shade of pink that can only be found in the great depths of sleep. The loving touch of their mother traced toes and ankles, and tenderly unfurled tiny fingers so she could count them.

One such fist was found tightly clutching a sword sewn together from only the finest swathes of material, and stuffed with something soft; and Rykar would no more relinquish his cushy blade than he would wake up to greet his mother.

Sansa laughed and sniffled at the same time, and hurt all the more. It was as though she had been gone decades.

The throe of missing them had been buried for moons in the North. At the passing of their nameday, the confines in which she kept that burden had decidedly cracked. The pain it once held firm seeped out like clawing tendrils of smoke; suffocating fingers that forced her to move away, to flee and seek reprieve.

To seek _them_. Her sons. The balm to tend her fissure of misery.

As she looked at her children now, she knew it would take more than a political advancement for her to ever leave them again. Even if her lord husband demanded it of her, she would rail against his command with her refusal. Her twins, her boys, _her life_, were a year older then when she had struck north; and the amount of innovation and progress they had achieved in their lives since her absence, already bound her with an unrelenting guilt.

_Never again_.

Sansa halted as she made to sit in the rocking chair Tywin had waiting for her when they first arrived at the Rock. It was a grand thing, large and comfortable, easy to sit with and sway two babes in time with sea that could be heard through the open windows.

Across the seat of the rocking chair was what looked like a heavy, cumbersome blanket; draped there was actually a long black and crimson cloak.

Tywin's cloak.

Sansa smiled.

A light shuffle of feet from behind caught her attention. At the same moment she turned to address the noise, she noticed the turn and departure of a tall figure at the doorway of the nursery. The more delicate sound of approach was one of her sons nurses, who bowed a greeting to her in a whisper.

"My lady, we weren't expecting your return."

Sansa turned back to the two sleeping treasures as she spoke lightly, absently.

"No. I assume you were not." Turning her head to the young woman no older than her, Sansa smiled as she proceeded, "I couldn't stand to be away any longer."

The nurse offered a pensive smile. It was something knowing, perhaps between mothers, or perhaps simply common sense. But as the girl made to leave, Sansa drew her eyes back to the cloak on the chair and made to quell her curiosity.

"Was Lord Tywin present tonight?"

The nurse stilled and grinned once more. This time it was an expression of pride, if Sansa were to guess.

"My lord has been present _every_ night since his return, my lady."

Sansa listened, and ran her fingertips over the cloak's seams and embroidery closest to her; and as the nurse continued speaking, she wallowed in the nuances of the familiar tactility. At the same time, she held at bay a shameful impulse to run into their bedchamber and wrap herself up in her husband's robe.

"Lord Tywin seeks them," the nurse's eyes flicked to Tysan and Rykar, "in the time after their bath, as they are being put to bed."

"Of course," Sansa chuckled, then inclined her head to encourage the girl to keep going.

"He talks to them, my lady," the girl giggled, returning her attention to Sansa. "Lord Tywin sits in that chair and addresses them as though they were proper lords." The nurse immediately looked away, abashed and afraid. "I know they _are_, my lady," she nervously whispered, "I apologize..."

It was a blunder her husband would never tolerate; it was a twist of words Sansa hardly noticed.

"It's quite all right," she soothed, trying to lighten the mood, "Please tell me he hasn't decreed taxes from them yet."

The nurse smiled and looked up once more, "Not yet, my lady, but they wait until their father finishes his speech then babble right back. It's the funniest thing - they have an entire conversation like that, of nonsense, until the children talk themselves to sleep."

The young nurse once again giggled softly, and Sansa felt an overwhelming sense of anticipation in what she was about to be told.

"Sometimes my lord is the one talked to sleep, my lady," the nursemaid mused quietly, "More than once we've found Lord Tywin asleep with a little lion tucked in each arm."

The anticipation Sansa felt thawing in her belly wicked through her; it spread a feeling of such contentment she felt fit to weep for no given reason other than that brimming warmth was embracing her.

Regardless of whether her husband had initially sought the company of their children out of obligation toward her, it was obvious he found something in the practice that compelled him to continue - every night. She didn't care what it was, or that she was not involved in its inception, what mattered was that her babes - and yes, Lord Tywin - were prospering from it. And she would help to ensure that singular measure remained habit.

Sansa smiled, focused once more on her children, and spoke in a kind of hushed dreamy state.

"Thank you."

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

He stood as his wife entered the large solar, approaching with steps that could be described as hurried, excited even, but his rise was not for the tact of decorum. Rounding his desk until he was leaning back, his knuckles white at the grip he held on the edge of the burnished wood top, Tywin looked at the happy young woman with eyes like razors and the bodily presence of a man wont to harm.

Sansa smiled at him all the while treading closer, and Tywin felt cornered. He felt more than that but it hit him with such a force, the impact made everything except sharp waves of ire undecipherable.

She stopped more than a pace away. Sansa may have been absent for moons, but it made her comprehension of Tywin's behavioral nuances no less ingrained. Instead of carrying ahead with her greeting, verbal and not, she waited.

Her steadfast patience had always rewarded her, even in the most unlikely of circumstances, this was no exception; it was her husband who ended the impasse.

"I was expecting a raven summoning the children, not your person."

Sansa quirk her brow in confusion, "Summon the children?"

It was like he didn't hear her question, he just kept prattling on, angry and distracted, "You didn't have to make the journey. I would have sent them."

"Tywin..." She stepped closer, her concern becoming apparent.

He snapped his eyes at her then and snarled low, "Don't think to patronize me, girl-"

"_Tywin_..." She _was _concerned; this version of him revoked his own natural poise and made him seem ungainly.

Lady Lannister made a gentle reach for her husband and it was as if she were about to slit his throat.

He grabbed her wrist in a manner he hadn't in ages, it was a grip meant to control and demean. But she was no longer the girl with fear and tears in her eyes.

No, the woman in his clutch was intrepid.

She grimaced at the pain and growled through her teeth, "You're _hurting _me."

Her own confusion twisted itself into a base-burning anger, but mostly she wanted to know what was wrong with the man in front of her.

Lord Tywin stared at her, his eyes burning in impotent rage.

Sansa had the inclination to feel amused.

He sneered at her, his whole face shifting to accommodate his hate.

"_Why did you come back_?!"

He flicked his eyes, so tormented and loathing, directly at hers. It was like she was reading a book - words dancing clear and unbidden - and Sansa knew her lion was broken.

Hurt and shattering.

_This man_.

This great man with _so_ much, yet so little.

In front of her stood a man so rich with gold and power that he crumbled knowing the only thing he ever truly desired was dignity.

And he had _none_.

Not one fraction.

But _she_ did.

Sansa possessed the wealth the Great Lion envied, more so she radiated it. It oozed out of her with every word and action, but her husband had only ever appreciated it.

He could have claimed it for his own - taken her treasure and squandered it.

But he didn't.

He let her keep it; and instead, with distance and time, resented her for possessing such an exceptional quality to begin with.

The emptiness of the trait he so coveted was made even more apparent and intolerable by the act of her arrival. He never expected her to remove herself from the North. He painfully came to terms with letting her go, only to have her breeze back into his life in order to flaunt that which he would never have - _her_ included.

She was taunting him.

_The cruel malicious thing_.

Tywin's gaze flicked away, well past her, his vicious clench still held on her wrist. Sansa took her free hand and squeezed her own grasp around the chin of the man who seemed to despise her. Her nails dug little white curves on either side of his mouth, and Sansa used the distraction to force his attention toward her.

"I didn't come _back_!" she seethed, all wrath and resentfulness.

Sansa could feel his jaw clench as his eyes narrowed, and she watched as something curiously resembling defeat came to rest in them.

The grip on her wrist loosened, and it only compelled her to tighten the one she had on his face - she shook that same grip with every word spit at the man before her.

"You... _old_ _fool_!"

Three words snuffed out Tywin's animosity with no effort, like it had never been there to begin with.

She hurt him, she knew.

She meant it.

It was necessary in order to dig him out of the petty furor he was buried in.

His eyes were no longer livid, no longer burning; his features softened like that of a child. Tywin was waiting for her to strike the final blow, to end them, _end him_, but what was worse was that her husband looked as though he had been expecting it.

And it was _that _knowledge that prevented her from faltering; prevented her from succumbing to her disposition of wanting to bow and submit and augment herself for the benefit of others.

For the benefit of Tywin.

Sansa no longer dug her nails into his flesh, but cradled it with her fingertips; the grasp was light, yet he followed her tug to lean closer, regardless.

Everything about his wife was fire. She scorched to the quick of him and kept going.

His face was close enough to hers that Tywin could smell the elements on her; like she bathed in the sky of the North and slept in the cradle of the Sunset Sea.

His wife was an ethereal plane that existed overtop his own narrow world, and she was about to remove that part from him altogether. The anticipation of such an amputation was dreadful, it stirred in him the kind of fear he knew he would be lucky to survive.

"I came home, Tywin."

Her words didn't make sense though. His wife surely said she was _going _home, and he'd misheard.

He opened his mouth to cast her out with whatever ferocity he could scrape together, but was shut down with the sound of her voice once again addressing him.

This time louder. This time without the possibility of misunderstanding.

"I came _home_."

Lord Tywin could do no more than blink stupidly at the creature he towered over, that held him rapt at her every word and inclination.

_...and he was truly hers._

He watched her head tilt minutely to the side, as though in question, and felt her soft fingers slowly brush their way under his chin and down his neck.

Tywin closed his eyes and inhaled slow and long through his nose as Sansa's fingers stopped their journey at the top of his collar. Her fore and middle fingers curled themselves between the lush fabric of his doublet and course unshaved skin behind it.

Elegant knuckles gently pressed into his throat and the old lion swallowed involuntarily.

"This ends. _Now_."

Her voice seeped through him; crawled into his ears, to his mind and flickered there. It was when he truly registered her words that he was able to look at his wife once more.

She gave him his own command.

A command hissed at her so long ago. One she embraced despite its venom.

"You trust me or you don't, my lord. There is only one choice, and no middle ground." Her face was wiped of everything save seriousness. "If your trust is something I have not yet earned, I ask you tell me and I will gladly take our sons and leave."

Tywin Lannister had never been a man to take kindly to ultimatums or intimidation, but this was something entirely different. This was a negotiation of emotional veracity in which there was no place for conniving arbitration.

It should have been the simplest task to tell his wife the truths she was seeking.

It should have been even easier to hide behind his ire and let his irritation speak for him.

_Anything gained easily has the highest of prices_, and Tywin knew his soul could no longer pay the toll of living without her.

Her husband was in caught in a whorl of turmoil, like a wounded animal. Such as a lion that has been hunted for too many years, Lord Tywin snarled and paced and swiped at those close to him with deadly claws; all the while limping and bleeding.

His struggle was plain on his face.

Sansa's fingers shifted to lay against the side of his neck, twisting her palm upward, allowing her thumb to sweep idly along his jawline. The rasp of his unshaven stubble loud between them.

"Did you truly expect me _not_ to return?"

Tywin's brows pinched low and deep on his forehead, it wasn't a look of suspicion more than it was a look of boyish insecurity.

"Why would you?" he asked with an edge of petulance.

Three words. These held so many questions, so many uncertainties. So many hopes.

Sansa couldn't think or do much more than stare in something akin to wonder.

When she failed to answer him, Tywin fell back on close-minded supposition.

"You can't tell me Winterfell is not where you would prefer-"

She cut him short, her words each their own accusation, her hand tightened minutely on his jaw.

"What's there for me," blue eyes burned just as hot as green, "but ruins of a place I once knew and memories of people I will never see again?

"I will dedicate myself to the betterment, rebuilding and ruling of the North. I will always love the North, it will always be a part of me. But my _home_ is with my family, Tywin. And my _family_ is not in the North."

Of course they weren't. His wife had endured each parent and sibling, in one form or another, die around her.

He sobered at her words; his eyes focused, _finally_, sincerely.

Sansa presented a soft smile at her husband's wash of stubborn, brittle understanding. Blinking slowly at him, she leaned forward purposefully, gently bumping the length of her body against his.

"May I come home, my lord?"

The whisper was loud in the somber atmosphere.

His countenance was severe, but his touch was amazingly delicate. Tywin slowly wrapped one arm around her waist, keeping a tender hold on the wrist he'd punished with the other - his thumb drawing careful little circles - and gently pulled his wife against him.

Other than his deepened breathing and the occasional throaty growl, the old lion said nothing.

Curling his shoulders, Tywin nudged his face into her thick hair and rested his mouth on her neck, on the silky expanse peeking out above her high collar; it was an act of bliss he dreamt of when she wasn't near.

He nodded over and over again, speaking hoarsely into that sanctuary of skin.

"It's yours, my queen."

Sansa laughed. For him, it was a sound that set him free.

"_Ours_, my king."

She could feel him smiling into the column of her throat; then, at once, heard a rumbling that started deep in his chest only to bubble over his lips.

Lord Tywin held his lady flush, held her tight.

Her lion was laughing with her.

He felt weightless in his joy, in their joy, and it began to frighten him.

Joy bred complacency, and complacency was naught but death...

_Joanna_.

The insidious pull of bleak gravity tore away in him again; trying to hollow him, trying to leave nothing more than a husk.

_Sansa_.

Tywin notched a tighter hold on his wife, _his wife his wife his wife_, and nuzzled into her neck, then up to her ear. There was no trace of mirth in him by the time he dragged his jaw along hers - his side whiskers snagging loose strands of auburn as he journeyed.

He pulled his head back but kept her body intimately resting against him. _Oh, what relief that brought_. Lifting his hands to cup either side her face and neck, Tywin marveled once more at the woman in his possession.

Lord Tywin was vaguely familiar with beautifully frightening realizations, the ones he knew would inherently change his life.

This was one of them.

Sansa had always been.

Since the moment she had been pulled into his world, into him; when she fearlessly spiraled through her pleasure at his touch and unknowingly dragged him along into a new existence, he knew.

Tywin had always known.

The old lion could do no more than stare and breathe.

Sansa observed and concluded.

Using her toes, she pushed up and elevated her upturned mouth to his that was inclined. Her lips simply grazed his, a feather's touch, over and over again sweeping back and forth until her lion retained nothing of resolve.

At first, he did no more than lean his mouth onto hers. His wife didn't cajole or pressure her want, she allowed him the choice. It was more minutes than were rightly appropriate for him to hold her static, on her toes, his thumbs caressing lines over her cheeks; but his mind was only permitting flecks of solace, and Tywin was at its mercy.

It seemed hours, but the two entities in the room prickled heat between them that refused to diminish under the scrutiny of time.

And yet it seemed in only an instant the clunking shallow hurt that had burrowed deep into the lion's chest caved in upon itself - taking with it the tiny space his conscience had allotted for repose.

Tywin angled his mouth against that of his lady and could feel her open a fraction for him, inviting him in; his throat purred, his lips twitched a curve, and he gladly took her offering.

The caress of her tongue welcomed him.

The twist and pull of her fingers in his doublet anchored him.

The radiating hum of her need embraced him.

The shift and grind of her body seduced him.

Absolutely.

_Yes_, sang bold the thoughts of Lord Tywin Lannister, _We are home_.

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A huge, huge thank you to Ice-Eagle Y'siri for stepping in at the eleventh hour to beta this beast for me.

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**Author's Note: **There will be one more installment of this series. It doesn't have a name yet, but it has been started.

As always, your support and encouragement are what have kept this series going, kept my brain firing with ideas.

You are wonderful, and I thank you.


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